THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


WKMTlit!  1 

lyiy&teOTU  UlLl 


GEORGE  ALBERT  WILSON 


"  For  all  men,  indeed, 

Who  in  some  choice  edition  may  graciously  read, 
With  fair  illustration,  and  erudite  note, 
The  song  which  the  poet  in  bitterness  wrote, 
Beat  the  poet,  and  notably  beat  him,  in  this — 
The  joy  of  the  genius  is  theirs,  whilst  they  miss 
The  grief  of  the  man." 

—  Oiven  Meredith. 


NVACK-ON- HUDSON 
(PUBLISHED    BY    TUB    AUTHOR 


Copyright  by 

GEOfcGE   AI-BERT   WILSON, 
1894. 


'JOURNAL"  PRESS,  NYACK-ON-HUDSON, 
Bound  at  the  Oxford  Bindery. 


ps 


To  M-   I     B. 


This  little  book  I  dedicate  to  thee, 
With  love  as  deep  as  e'er  was  sounding  sea. 
'T  is  not  a  paltry  gift  I  'queath,  and  yet 
It  leaves  unpaid  the  whole  of  Friendship's 

debt! 
To  thee  this  scrip  of  stumbling  verse,  the 

whole 

I  dedicate,  and  on  my  heart's  flesh-scroll 
These  words  I  write  :  "  Behold  the  marv'lous 

pow'r 
Of    Friendship,  gift  of   God  —  -His  priceless 

dow'r  !  " 


623881 


Salutatory. 

So  many  minds  of  great,  undoubted  worth 
Have   trod   the  path   that  leads  to  heav.'n 

from  earth, 

I  fain  my  hand  would  hold  : 
So  many  men  of  genius,  rich  and  rare, 
Have    reached    Olympia — seen   the  glories 

there — 
To  emulate  were  bold. 

So  many  think  the  gift  the  gods  bestow — 
A  patch  of  sunshine  in  dark  meads  below — 

Is  theirs — illusion  vain! — 
That  those  to  whom    ambrosial   joys     are 

known 
Communion  with  the  gods  are  loth  to  own, 

Lest  they  the  guild  profane. 

So  halting  is  my  verse,  and  inchoate 
The  talent  I  devote  to  mission,  great, 
I  blush  to  own  my  Muse; 


So   slender  seems  the   thread   that   to    ine 

binds 

Its  words  of  passion,  modesty  reminds 
Me  I  may  but  abuse. 

So  meagre  is  my  ken  of  poets'  ways — 
Their  strained  effects  that  meet  a  wond'ring 
praise, 

Their  strict  exclusiveness — 
I  fear  my  plebeian  pen  may  shame  reflect 
On  noble  gods'  and  Nature's  own  elect 

With  its  effusiveness. 

My  stilted  style,  at  times,  may  mirth  evoke 
From  those  who  lighter  things  invoke 

To  satiate  their  minds  ; 
And  sentiments  I  write  in  meek  duress 
To  thoughts  that  banish  happiness 

Had  better  woo  the  winds. 

Some   verses,   penned  ere  youth's    enthrall 
was  o'er, 


May  pity  for  my  Muse  inspire — no  more  : 

Yet  such  I  'd  not  disclaim! 
Who  walks  erect  ere  gone  are   creep -taught 

days : 
Who  lubricates  the  ear  of  king  with  praise — 

Except  thro'  falls  and  shame  ? 

And    if,    perchance,    too    oft    my   thoughts 

recur 
To  subjects  other  than  those  men  prefer — 

To  gloomy  things,  and  sad — 
The  pardon  of  the  reader  I  implore : 
Far  from  me  be  it  thus  to  probe  the  sore 

Of  years,  or  sorrow  add. 

If,  then,  with  trembling  heart,  'tvvixt  hope 

and  fear. 
From    haven,    mine,   to    critic  wastes,    and 

drear, 
This  little  tome  I  send, 


Condone  the  anxious  fear — forgive  the  hope 
That  may  my  eye,  of  single  purpose,  ope 
To  truth:  firm  foe — fast  friend! 

THE  AUTHOR. 
NVACK-ON-HUDSON , 
OCTOBER  i,  1894. 

Born  Pennington,  N.  J.,  1874. 


Table  of  Contents. 


PAGE. 

THE  AUTHOR  .        Frontispiece. 

To   M.    I.    B.  .         vii 

Salutatory         ......  ix 

POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM. 

Decoration    Day       -  ...  19 

Memorial    Blossoms  ....  ^o 

A    Memorial   Aftermath  -  24 

Heroes   Yet        -  ...  37 

Independence   Day  ....  31 

Shall   We   Give   Up  the   Flags  ?    -  36 

My   Country  .            .            .            -  38 

CARDIAC    CONCEPTS. 

Dreamland         .....  43 

Thanksgiving   Violets      .  .  .  .          45 

I    "  Saw  "    My   Loved  One   Home  -  47 

Her   Photograph     -  -  -          49 

Largesse   and   Dying   Embers         -  -  50 

I    Dreamed   My   Love   Was   Dead        -  -          51 

Unrequited    Love  53 

A   Valentine  •  •  •          57 

Birthday   Greeting— To  M.   I.    B.  .  58 

In  Golden    Fetters  ....          60 

Heart's   Content  .  62 

No   Future   But  Thee      -  -  -          64 

Just   Sixteen   Years   Ago   To-Day  -  66 

Forget-Me-Not         .....          68 
A   Valentine— To   A.   L.   D.  .  .  69 

The  Old   Love's  Claim    ...  -71 

My   Love   and    I  -73 

xiii 


Brighter  Than   the   Stars  -          75 

Four   Years   Ago          -  76 

I    Cannot   Sin           -  -                         -          78 

Just   As   Thou   Art  !    -  79 

Enchanted   Ground  So 

A   Letter  82 

My   Queen  -          84 

SPIRITUAL    SELECTIONS. 

During   a   Snow-Storm  91 

The  Quiet   Hour     -  -          92 

Retribution          -  95 

New   Year   Resolutions  -                                    -          97 

A   Negative   Thanksgiving   -  99 

A    Prodigal's   Return  -                                       -         101 

My   Evening   Prayer  -  -                                       102 

Easter  -         105 

"  A   Little  Child  Shall  Lead   Them  "     -               107 

A    Soliloquy  .             -         no 

An   Easter  Anthem     -  112 

MEMORIAL  AND  PERSONAL. 

Mrs.    Harrison          -  117 

James   Gillespie   Blaine  -                        -               119 

Gen.  John   A.   Logan  -                                    -        121 

Lord   Alfred   Tennyson  -                                         123 

Edward   Everett   Hale  -                        -            -        124 

Ella   Wheeler    Wilcox  •                            125 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

A   Pneumatological   Query          -  129 

Christmas            -  131 

"  '92   and   '93  "         -  -         133 

The   Poet's   Make-up  134 

Destiny          -  -         135 


Unreality 

Waiting 

Thought 

To   a  Little   Child 

Beyond   the   Tears 

Thrice    Happy   He 

A    Query 

While   on   the   Hook    Mountain 

Thanksgiving-    - 

A    Hallowe'en    Recipe 

Spring    Apostrophizes 

The   Drum    - 

The  Judge's    Decision 

That   Quizzing   Blizzard 

Ineffectual    Genius 

The   Press     - 

Despair    - 

The    Italian    Match    Boy 

Quatrains 

Athens'    Defection 

A   Retrospect    - 

Romping    Rhyme   - 

Summer   Days    Are   On   the   W; 

When   Old   Age   Comes   On 

"  E'en   Tho'    It   Be   a  Cross  " 

L'Envoi 


136 
"37 
U9 
141 
142 
144 

MS 
146 
i4S 
15° 
'52 
iS4 
'56 
158 
j6o 
162 
164 
166 
168 
169 

i7' 

172 

'75 
178 
iSo 
183 


Poems  of  Patriotism 


Decoration  Day. 

The  day  has  come  when  hearts  must  bend 

In  grim,  yet  glorious,  grief : 
When  to  Death's  city,  white,  we  send 

Our  tributes.     On  a  leaf 
Of  Time's  volum'nous  scroll  we  grave. 

In  letters  blurred  with  tears, 
The  names  of  those — the  gallant  brave — 

Who  knew  no  puling  fears. 
We  deck  with  Nature's  treasures  mounds 

'Neath  which  our  soldiers  sleep  : 
No  reveille  for  them  resounds 

Again. 

The  shadows  creep 
Athwart  the  sky.     The  day  is  past : 

Those  dreaming  'neath  the  sod 
Ne'ermore  shall  war  in  blue  cuirassed — 

Our  heroes  live  with  God  ! 


JVIemorial  BIossorr?s. 


Read  at  the  exercises  of  Waldron  Post,  82,  G.  A.  R., 
Nyack-on-Hudson,  Memorial  Day,  1892,  by  Miss  Fannie 
Blauvelt. 

What  mem'ries  cluster  'round  the  day, 

To  loyal  hearts,  and  true. 
That  tells  of  Blue  against  the  Gray, 

And  Gray  against  the  Blue. 
It  speaks  of  fields  of  carnage  where 

The  battle-smoke  hung  low  : 
And  shrieks  of  anguish  rent  the  air 

From  many  a  sick'ning  blow : 
When  foemen,  won  from  brotherhood 

By  insurrection's  cry, 
Stood  firm,  or  fell  in  welt'red  blood, 

Heroic  deaths  to  die  ; 
When  came  the  clash  of  arms,  and  war 

Seemed  all  that  then  remained : 
But  when  the  storm-cloud  had  passed  o'er 

The  Union  was  sustained  ! 
Sustained  !  but  at  a  fearful  cost 


Of  bloodshed  and  of  life  : 
The  Union,  dark  and  tempest-tos'l, 

Had  felt  fell  treason's  knife  ! 
Sad  memories  the  day  recalls 

Of  comrades  borne  away 
On  stretchers  from  hospital  walls — 

To  rest  till  that  great  day 
When  come  from  out  the  moss-grown  tomb 

The  great  and  good  of  years, 
To  shake  off  scenes  of  darkened  gloom — 

Exchange  for  smiles  their  tears. 
And  many  comrades  gathered  'round 

The  campfire's  lurid  glow. 
And,  seated  on  the  parent  ground, 

Sang  songs  in  voices,  low. 
Their  theme  was  "  Home,"  of  loved  ones 
there 

Who  watched  till  they  returned ; 
And  many  prayed  for  sweethearts,  fair, 

For  whom  their  whole  souls  yearned  : 
And     '"  Tramp,     Tramp,    Tramp,"     made 


many  a  heart 

With  martial  fire  to  leap, 
While  "  Annie  Laurie"  played  its  part. 

Till  nil  were  wrapped  in  sleep. 
But  many  a  father  waited  long 

Ere  carne  his  soldier  boy, 
And  many  a  mothers  heart,  so  strong, 

Was  filled  with  Spartan  joy. 
Now,  Decoration  Day  is  come 

To  keep  the  past  in  mind, 
And,  'mid  the  roll  of  muffled  drum, 

Sweet  buds  on  graves  we  bind. 
But,  as  we  lay  these  fragrant  flowers 

On  many  a  warrior's  mound, 
We  bear  in  mind  not  only  ours 

Are  those  beneath  the  ground — 
The  Nation  for  whose  flag  they  fought 

And  bled,  till  stern  death  came, 
Has,  by  that  act,  a  title  bought : 

A  higher,  nobler  claim  ! 
A  1  is  now  past  :  all  is  forgiv'n  : 


And  in  the  grave  of  years 
We  bury  hearts  once  torn  and  riv'n. 

And  cover  all  with  tears. 
And,  as  the  broken  columns  move, 

Anon,  with  falt'ring  tread, 
We'll  show  a  Nation's  heartfelt  love 

For  its  heroic  dead. 
To-day  the  Blue  salutes  the  Gray, 

And  arm  in  arm  they  twine: 
Blossoms  on  Decoration  Pay 

Are  laid  at  Freedom's  shrine. 


A   Memorial  Aftermath. 


Winding  among  the  mounds  of  earth. 

Each  with  its  tale  to  tell. 
March  men,  and  children  hush  their  mirth. 

While,  deep-bass,  tolls  the  bell. 

And  then  the  band  strikes  up  a  dirge. 
And  hearts,  that  ne'er  knew  fear. 

Swell  up,  with  an  impetuous  surge. 
While  falls  the  silent  tear. 

And  then. — But    hark  :     "  Right    shoulder 
arms  !  " 

Rings  out  upon  the  air  : 
And  vet'rans,  feeling  long-dead  charms. 

Obey,  and  onward  bear. 

The  sun  sends  down  his  piercing  rays. 

Bathing  in  warmth  the  ground, 
Just  as  he  did  in  those  dark  days 

When  roared  the  cannon's  sound. 
24 


But,  of  the  men  who  marched  ahead, 

In  spite  of  shot  and  shell, 
Many  are  camping  'mong  the  dead — 

Buried  right  where  they  fell. 

A  woman  bends  beside  the  tomb 

Of  one  once  dear  to  her  : 
Who  tramped  away,  in  youthful  bloom, 

A  dashing  officer. 

Then  came  the  news:  a  rebel  shot 
Struck  Charlie  to  the  ground  ! 

That  moment's  shock  she  ne'er  forgot — 
Unhealing  was  its  wound. 

They  bore  him  home  and  laid  his  form 

Beneath  the  sighing  trees  : 
There  now  he  lies,  in  rain  and  storm. 

And  in  the  autumn  breeze. 

The  guns  may  roar,  the  cannons  crack, 
Beneath  the  heavens,  starr'd  : 


He  's  in  the  last  grand  bivouac, 
Inside  the  old  church-yard. 

Yes,  oft  she  comes  to  see  her  dead, 

The  love  of  by-gone  years  : 
O'er  his  dear  grave  sweet  flowers  to  spread, 

Bedewing  all  with  tears. 

There  leave  her  with  her  long-dead  boy, 

Sleeping  beneath  the  sod  : 
She  buried  ev'ry  earthly  joy 

When  he  went  home  to  God. 

And,  as  the  slow  procession  twines 

Away  'mid  gathering  gloom, 
She  sinks  among  the  tendril  vines — 

Tear  wedded  to  the  tomb. 


Heroes  Yet. 

Read  at  the  exercises  of  Waldron  Post,  82,  G.  A.  R., 
Nyack-on-Hudson,  at  Oak  Hill  Cemetery,  Memorial  Day, 
1894,  by  Miss  Fannie  Blauvelt. 

Heroes  they  were  in  '61, 

And  now,  in  '94, 
A  Nation's:  "Comrades,  thou  'st  well  done, 

And  turned  the  hand  of  war — 
With  blood  a-reek,  and  broken  hearts 

Plethoric  in  its  wake  !  ''- 
A  sense  of  gratitude  imparts 

That  naught  can  ever  shake. 
The  debt  we  owe  our  honored  dead 

Can  never  be  repaid  : 
Priceless  the  blood  of  heroes  shed 

Who  never  sheathed  the  blade  ! 
How  puerile  seems  our  sentiment. 

Compared  with  that  desire 
Nurtured  by  men,  on  valor  bent, 

Who  charged  through  blood  and  fire, 
And  stormed  the  hosts  that  wore  the  gray, 

27 


Nor  stopped  to  think  of  fear, 
But  carried  on  the  Flag  of  Day — 

The  Stars  and  Stripes — so  dear 
To  ev'ry  heart  attuned  to  love 

Of  home,  God,  native  land. 
No  love  of  ours  can  e'er  remove 

Our  obligation,  grand  ! 
Full  many  a  field  in  glist'ning  stars 

Beheld  bright  prototypes : 
For  one  host  waved  the  rebel  Bars — 

The  other  streamed  the  Stripes. 
The  angels  paused  their  sweeping  swell 

Of  harmony  divine, 
And  dwelt  upon  the  raging  hell 

Of  warriors,  'rayed  in  line. 
Then  God — the  God  alike  of  peace 

And  unrelenting  war — 
Looked  down  :  bade  sullen  strife  surcease. 

And  stopped  the  leaden  pour. 
Shall  we  a  Nation's  love  withhold 

From  those  who  fought  as  these  ? 

28 


Far  rather  let  their  fame  be  told 

In  ev'ry  passing  breeze  ! 
Let  ev'ry  bird  that  sings  to-day, 

As  men  pass  in  review, 
Chirp  joyfully,  because  the  Gray 

Is  merged  into  the  Blue. 
We  garland  graves  with  many  a  bud 

That  Nature  deigns  to  yield 
In  love  for  those  who  gave  their  blood 

When  Liberty  appealed. 
The  Nation's  emblem  vigil  keeps 

Over  the  hero's  grave : 
The  Nation's  heart  stands  still  and  weeps — 

For  it  he  died  to  save  ! 
Far  back,  along  the  centuries'  wake, 

One  died  that  all  might  live 
Who  would  but  on  them  gladly  take 

His  yoke — obedience  give, 
We  have,  to-day,  exemplars,  grand, 

Of  that  Oblation,  true, 

The  men  who  died  for  flag  and  land — 

29 


Who  wore  the  Union  blue. 
We  weep,  and  yet  our  eyes  are  dry  : 

We  mourn,  but  make  no  sound  : 
The  brave  who  sleep  can  never  die. 

E'en  tho'  the  dampened  ground 
Their  forms  may,  in  firm  embrace,  hold : 

A  white  stone  o'er  the  head : 
They  tramp,  tramp,   tramp   the   streets  of 
gold— 

The  brave  are  never  dead  ! 
As  comes  again  Memorial  Day, 

And  flags  and  flowers  are  due, 
IVe  weep  for  the  misguided  Gray, 

And  for  our  Boys  in  Blue. 


Read   ;it   the   celebration    at    N'yack-oii-Hiulson,    1894, 
by  the  Rev.  J.   H.  Taylor. 

"  Old  Glory  "  waves  its  tri-hued  folds 
Over  the  land  that  ever  molds 

The  good,  the  brave,  the  true  : 
How  dear  each  thread  that  Freedom  wove 
Into  the  woof  and  warp  of  love 

For  red,  and  white,  and  blue ! 

But  long  before  the  dreamer  dreamed 
Of     Stars    and    Stripes     o'er    brave    men 
streamed, 

Its  spirit,  brave,  had  life  : 
For  Freedom's  heart  was  ever  w;irm — 
Its  pulse  beats  ever  uniform — 

Its  soul  with  unrest  rife. 

( )ur  fathers'  fathers  chafed  beneath 

The  yoke  of  Britain,  and  the  wreath 

Of  vict'ry.  laurel-crown'd, 


Was  hung  upon  the  stripe-cros't  staff- 
Liberty's  air  was  theirs  to  quaff — 
Their  right  as  men  they  found  ! 

Found?     Yes — and  more  than  that — they 

gained 
Their  right,  and  many  a  field,  blood-stained 

To  it  sad  witness  bears  ! 
With  patriotic  blood  ran  red 
Dark  streams,  beside  which  lay  their  dead. 

A  noble  fight  was  theirs  ! 

As  runs  the  course  of  human  love 
The  way  of  roughness  not  above — 

So  with  our  love  for  land  : 
From  first  inception,  struggling  seemed 
The  legacy  the  gods  best  deemed 

Our  portion  to  command  ! 

The  echoes,  deep,  of  Bunker  Hill 

A  lodgment  find  in  brave  hearts  still — 

Their  roll  can  never  cease  ! 
32 


And  many  a  Jasper  now  would  leap 
Into  the  fire  of  hell  to  keep 

From  shame  the  flag  of  peace  ! 

We  love  the  uniform  they  wore  : 
We  love  the  brave  for  love  they  bore 

Our  country,  first  and  last ! 
We  love  the  spirit  born  among 
Dales  where  ^Eolus'  harp  was  strung, 

And  measured  to  the  blast. 

We  love  the  thought  that  love  was  theirs — 
A  love  for  liberty  that  dares 

To  scorn  a  compromise  ! 
We  love  the  brave  because  they  trod 
The  soil  o'er  which  proud  Freedom's  God 

Stretches  His  bluest  skies  ! 

With  that  republic  twin's,*  on  whom 
So  late  has  fallen  hand  of  gloom, 


*France.    The   obsequies   of  M.  Marie    Sadi  Carnot, 
President  of  the  Republic,  had  just  taken  place. 

33 


America's  tears  blend  : 
We  know  full  well  affliction's  woe. 
When  Union's  lamp  has  flicker'd  low, 

And  hearts  of  men  unbend. 

And  tho'  full  oft  in  splendor  spread, 
Our  flag  has  dip'd  its  regal  head 

Betore  ihe  face  of  Mors  : 
Who  mourned  not  when  good  Lincoln  died, 
When  Garfield  crossed  the  Lethan  tide 

Where  man  knows  not  the  shores  ? 

We  little  know  what  bloodshed  means 
And  far  less  of  its  carnage  scenes — 

Its  horror  and  its  woe  : 
But  we  have  those  who  bore  the  brunt 
Of  bitter  warfare  at  the  front 

To  thank  that  it  is  so  ! 

No  more  the  battle  cloud  hangs  dun  : 
No  more  obscured  is  glare  of  sun  : 
No  more  the  cannon's  sound  : 

34 


Peace,  lily-beautified,  prevails  : 

Peace,    in    whose    sight    e'en    fierce    Mars 

quails  : 
Peace — powerful,  profound  ! 


Shall  We  Give  Up  the  Flags? 


Dedicated  to  (then)  Governor  J.  B.  FORAKER  of  Ohio, 
veteran-statesman,  whose  position  against  the  order  of  the 
Executive— that  all  stands  of  colors  taken  from  belligerent 
Confederates,  during  the  "  late  unpleasantness,"  be  re 
turned  to  the  States  represented  by  the  ensigns  at  the 
time  of  bellicose  relations — aroused  the  latent  indignation 
of  the  eitiz  ens — especially  the  veterans — of  the  North,  and 
resulted  in  the  ill-timed,  unprecedented  order  being  re 
scinded. 


Shall  we  give  up  flags  so  dearly — hardilyr 
as  were  these, — bought : 

Taken  from  the  hands  of  traitors  who  to 
knife  the  Union  sought  ? 

Shall  we  give — reward  to  treason — trophies 
of  its  shame  and  fall, 

Won  on  fields  of  knightly  valor  by  the 
brave  who  knew  the  call 

Of  their  country,  sore  distressed,  and  an 
swered  as  all  patriots  would 

With  their  banner,  proud,  insulted  by  a  fel 
low-brotherhood  ? 

36 


By  an  act  of   legislation,  all  this  would  be 
done  away ! 

And  the  traitors  stand  as  arrogantly  as  be 
fore  that  day 

When  the  flag  that  shadowed  Sumter  in  its 
folds  of  heav'nly  hue 

Was  assailed  by  guns   full-shotted — God  ! 
our  red  !  our  white  !  our  blue  ! 

Shall  the  State,  in  puerile  meekness,  then 
forget,  though  it  forgive, 

And  insult  the  men  who  fought  and,  'spite 

the  rebel  onslaught,  live  ? 
WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  1886. 


37 


My  Couptry! 

My  country — beautiful,  supreme,, 
As  ever  blessed  Utopian  dream — 

My  country,  loved,  revered  ! 
May  aught  that  seeks  to  overthrow 
My  country  happiness  ne'er  know, 

And  withered  be,  and  sered  ! 

My  country  !  ev'ry  fierce  pulse-beat 
That  throbs,  with  Vulcan's  hottest  heat, 

Through  these,  our  bodies,  free, 
Leaps  high  at  mention  of  thy  name, 
And  glories  in  thy  peerless  fame — 

Our  first  love  is  with  thee ! 

"My  country!  right  or  wrong,1'  the  same? 
My  country!  naught  shall  ever  shame 

Thy  shield,  while  brave  men  live  1 
We  pride  in  all  that  speaks  of  thee — 
One  land,  one  flag,  from  sea  to  sea — 

What  glory  dost  thou  give  ! 
38 


My  country !  poet,  tune  thy  song 
To  metes  that  to  its  love  belong — 

My  country!  sacred  land! 
My  country  !  ev'ry  foe  disarmed  ! 
My  country  !  by  each  rift  unharmed  ! 

My  country — mount  and  strand  ! 


Concepts 


Dreamland. 


Ecstatic  gladness  fills  me, 
A  joyful  tremor  thrills  me, 
When,  worn  with  toil,  I  hasten  to  its  love- 
embowered  domain ; 
Sweet  calm  steals  o'er  my  spirit 
Whene'er  I  venture  near  it — 
The  land  of  dreams  of  days  gone  by,  where 
life  is  young  again. 

Forgot  is  all  repining  : 
I've  found  the  silver  lining 
That  ev'ry  cloud  of  sorrow  has,  although  so 

black  it  seems  ; 

With  long-dead  friends  communing, 
While  Mem'ry's  lyre  is  tuning — 
What  happiness  to  wander  in  the  vista-land 
of  dreams. 

Old  loves  to  new  life  waking, 
The  long  years'  silence  breaking, 


And  recollections  stirring  that  I  hoped,  ere 

this,  were  dead  : 

Yet,  were  it  mine — the  choosing 
Of  keeping  or  of  losing — 
The   dream-god    oft   would  visit    me    and 
heav'nward  lift  my  bed. 


44 


Thanksgiving  Violets. 


Some  azure  guests  from  summer-land, 

Preserved  through  wintry  blasts, 
Came  to  me  in  the  mail  to-day. 

They  show  that  feeling  lasts. 
Though  she  who  sent  them  from  afar 

My  features  cannot  see  ; 
To  glad  my  sight  she  cared  so  much 

I  know  she  thought  of  me. 

May  others  choose  the  golden  rod, 

Gay  monarch  of  the  fall  ; 
While  some  may  hold  the  blushing  rose 

The  queen  is  of  them  all. 
Let  each  one  name  the  flower  the  heart 

Warms  toward — all  else  forget — 
And  welcome  to  it !  for  my  part 

I  love  the  violet. 

Blessed  with  the  pearly  tints  of  heav'n, 
Tho'  deeper  be  the  tint, 

45 


It  seems  that  God  to  them  has  giv'n 

His  favors,  without  stint. 
Unspeaking,  they  exemplify 

The  good,  the  pure,  the  true  ; 
Their  simple  splendors  please  the  eye- 

These  friends  of  mine  in  blue. 

When  I  was  but  a  little  lad, 

And  ''said  my  A  B  C's," 
A  little  cup  was  given  me, 

My  unformed  tastes  to  please. 
And  "Love  the  Giver  "  was  inscribed 

On  it  in  deepest  blue  : 
Now,  while  I  love  the  violet, 

I  love  the  giver,  too. 


I   "  Saw  "   My  Liovcd  One  Home. 


I've  wandered  from  the  church  at  home. 

Into  the  world's  broad  fields, 
Yet,  at  the  dawn  or  in  the  gloam, 

A  recollection  shields 
Me  from  the  snares  that,  eager,  wait 

To  trap  me  as  I  roam — 
Of  when  I  waited  at  its  gate 

To  "  see"  my  loved  one  home. 

The  days  now  come,  the  days  now  pass. 

Thick-crowded  with  events. 
Yet  oft  I  think  of  that  sweet  lass 

Who  met  me  at  the  fence. 
A  talisman,  my  fears  to  charm, 

If  tos't  on  ocean's  foam — 
The  thought  of  when  I  took  her  arm 

And  '"  saw  "  my  loved  one  home. 

1  ride  o'er  mountain,  hill  and  plain  : 

Beside  swift-rolling  streams. 
And  mem'ry  brings  back,  o'er  again, 


47 


Those  restful,  soothing  dreams. 
But,  as  the  ev'ning  shadows  fall, 

And  day  sinks  into  gloam, 
I  hear  the  old-time's  glad  recall — 

I  "  saw  "  my  loved  one  home  ! 
The  future  all  uncertain  lies  : 

I  would  not  know  her  ways — 
I  fain  would  learn,  as  a  surprise, 

Events  now  thick  'neath  haze. 
Yet,  tho'  I  rise,  or  tho'  I  fall, 

The  thought  will  ever  come 
Of  when,  from  that  vine-trellised  wall, 

I  "  saw  "  my  loved  one  home. 
I  know  not  if  I'll  see  again 

This  distant  love  of  mine  ; 
Nor  yet  the  happy  moment  when 

Our  fortunes  we'll  combine. 
But  sure  am  I,  when  next  we  meet, 

Beneath  high  heaven's  dome, 
My  aspirations  I'll  repeat — 

And  "  see  "  her  to  my  home  ! 
48 


Her  Photograph. 

'T  is  but  a  little  photograph  : 
Yet,  tho'  all  El  Dorado's  gold 

Were  scattered  'fore  me  like  the  chaff, 
I  would  not  yield  it  to  be  sold. 

In  it  true  beauty  sits  enshrinedr 
Before  which  I  devoutly  bow  ; 

While  tresses,  fretting  in  the  wind. 
Expose  her  intellectual  brow. 

The  sweeping  eyebrows,  slightly  raised, 
Reveal  her  twin-star  laughing  eyes 

Into  whose  depths  I  ne'er  have  gazed 
B.ut  to  repress  my  soul's  sad  sighs. 

Well  might  proud  Venus  bend  the  knee 
Before  this  northern  beauty's  throne — 

Yea,  that,  and  more,  do  I  to  thee, 
And  thank  high  Heaven  for  its  loan. 


49 


Largesse  and  Dying   Err?bers. 


They  come  to  me — yes,  once  again. 

Over  the  chasm  of  Time — 
Those  hours  of  joy  and  sunshine  when 

Existence  was  sublime. 
And,  in  the  largesse  of  my  love, 

All  else  below  fell  far  : 
Each  tone  knew  naught  of  joy  above, 

Nor  discord  there  to  mar. 

But,  as  to  ashes  burns  the  fire, 
When  past  is  fiercest  heit, 

So  did  her  love  for  me  expire  : 
Absinthine  was  my  sweet. 

And  straitway  on  a  journey  went 
This  burnt-out  frame  of  mine  ; 

Heart's  pliant  gold  was  shapeless  bent- 
Naught  else  can  it  refine. 


3   Dreamed  |VIy  bove  Was  Dead 


I  dreamed  my  love  was  dead,  and  dead 

Was  all  the  joy  I  'd  sought  ? 
I  heard  the  last  sweet  words  she  said, 

And  noted  down  the  thought. 
Then  fell  her  form  back  on  the  bed: 

A  wan,  sweet  smile  I  caught. 
Just  as  her  trusting  spirit  fled 

To  realms  which  God  has  wrought. 

A  final  sigh  escapes  her  lips, 

Her  bosom  heaves  once  more  ; 
And  fast  her  hold  on  life,  this,  slips — 

Drifting  upon  that  shore 
In  one  of  those  God-guided  ships, 

With  Faith's  flag  at  the  fore  : 
Then  firm  this  jewel  grim  Death  grips — 

And  life's  pained  days  are  o'er. 

Her  corse  I  followed  to  the  grave, 
My  heart  bowed  down  with  grief  ; 


I  tried  to  bear  up  and  be  brave, 
But  Death,  the  Silent  Thief, 

Had  ta'en  my  love  to  that  conclave 
Of  which  none  knows  the  Chief, 

And,  to  my  blighted  hopes  a  slave,. 
I  sought  nor  found  relief. 

Her  very  presence  filled  the  air : 

Her  virtues  were  my  theme  ; 
Where'er  I  looked,  her  image,  there, 

Shone,  as  a  fair  sunbeam. 
By  darkest  night,  in  noon-day's  glare,, 

Her  death-pall  was  supreme  : 
But  I  awoke,  in  deep  despair — 

And  found  it  all  a  dream. 


Unrequited   Love. 


I  wonder  why  that  all  around 
Drink  life's  joy  to  their  fill : 

My  life  is  gloom — 

The  breathless  tomb 
With  song  is  not  more  still. 

Ah,  Love,  why  didst  thou  seek  my  heart 
And  fill  with  thy  joy? 
My  hopes  are  dead, 
And  now,  instead, 
My  gold  is  all  allov. 

Why  did  I  seek  for  rest  in  thee, 
My  idol  and  my  love? 

You  love  me  not — 

'T  were  best  forgot 
-     And  risen  far  above. 

Forgot  ?     Nay,  never,  while  there  be 
A  heaven  and  God  above  ! 

.53 


I'll  not  forget 
When  first  we  met. 
And  thee  I  learned  to  love: 

Learned  ?     No,  that  is  not  the  word  r 
Love  came  as  birds  in  Spring — 

Unbidden  by 

A  look,  a  sigh  : 
Withal,  a  welcome  thing. 

I  threw  my  heart's  door  open  wide,. 
To  let  the  new  face  in  ; 

When  I  said  :  "  Go  !  " 

She  answered  :  "  No — 
Your  heart  I  strove  to  win  !  " 

"But,  leave  !"  I  cried,  "My  love  loves  not 
The  granite  is  less  cold  ! " 
She  would  not  leave  ; 
I  'm  doomed  to  grieve — 
O'er  what  was  once  fine  gold. 

Others  may  at  Diana's  throne 

54 


Pay  tribute  at  her  shrine : 

But  I  must  wait 

Till  opes  the  gate 
Where  glad  death  shall  be  mine. 

Aye,  welcome  Guest,  come !  take  me  where 
I  hear  no  love  song's  trill  : 

But,  even  there, 

A  thought  I'll  bear — 
I  love  my  idol  still ! 

"  To  ev'ry  lad  his  lassie-love,0 
A  poet  sang  of  old  : 

The  love  I  crave 

No  rest  e'er  gave — 
Methinks  all  hearts  are  cold. 

My  earthly  sun  sank  in  the  west, 
Ne'ermore  to  rise  again, 

When  Love  withdrew — 
Bade  me  adieu — 
Most  miserable  of  men. 

55 


But  if  there  be  a  Heav'n  beyond, 
Where  all  shall  find  release 
From  strife  and  pain, 
Will  once  again 
I  meet  my  dream  of  peace  ? 

And  will  she  know  and  love  me  there, 
And  understand  it  all — 

The  broken  heart, 

The  tears  that  start, 
The  dead  hopes  and  their  pall? 

I  loved  her  with  a  priceless  love, 
To  which  all  else  gave  place  : 

But  hope  is  dead, 

And  now,  instead, 
Oblivion  I  embrace. 


A  Valentine. 

A  valentine :  't  is  yours — 't  was  mine  : 

"  Like  unto  like,"  it  greets — 
Valentine  to  my  Valentine  : 

Sweet  maids  receive  the  sweets. 
It  shall  not  be  of  verses  made 

By  other  minds  than  mine  : 
I  'm  jealous  e'en  that  far — afraid 

To  vex  my  Valentine. 
It  shall  not  be  a  tinseled  thing, 

Enduring  but  a  day, 
Of  nut-brown  Cupids  on  the  wing, 

Like  humming-birds  in  May. 
Nor  shall  it  be  a  comic  one, 

With  vulgar  words  galore, 
That  shows  thee  blinking  at  the  sun 

In  March,  on  Coney's  shore. 
No!  that  which  I  shall  offer  thee, 

'Round  whom  my  heart-strings  twine, 
Is  love,  as  boundless  as  the  sea, 

All  for  my  Valentine. 

57 


Birthday  Greeting — To  M-   I-   B. 


Some  birthday  verses  ?     Well,  I  '11  try 

To  write  some  words  to  please  the  eye 

And  hold  the  mind  of  some  one  near 

Who  may,  perchance,  the  verses  hear. 

A  birthday  is  a  sacred  thing 

To  me,  and  old-time  mem'ries  bring 

To  mind  the  blithesome  days  when  I, 

A  little  laddie,  oft  would  try 

To  count  up  to  the  very  day 

When,  drawn  to  full  height,  I  could  say  : 

"  I'  m  'most  a  man  ! — Yes,  sir,  I  'm  ten! " 

Ah,  me  !  how  glad  did  life  seem  then! 

Then  added  years  brought  added  cares, 

And,  as  each  load  a  person  bears 

Prepares  him  for  a  greater  test. 

So  each  year  gave  me  added  zest 

For  life's  great  fight  'tween  wrong  and  right, 

And  days  of  dark  gave  days  of  light. 

You  'd  have  me  prophesy  for  you 

58 


A  birthday  wish.     Grant  it  be  true ! 
May  each  succeeding  year  bestow 
Fresh  beauty — add  to  that  pure  glow 
That  from  your  clear,  true  eyes  is  sent : 
God's  message  through  His  innocent. 


In  Golden  Fetters. 


Love  captive  leads  a  willing  slave, 

Who  would,  and  yet  would  not,  be  free, 
For.  with  that  freedom  he  would  crave, 

Would  come  a  loss,  which,  ah !  dear  me! 
I  can  't  explain.     And  yet  't  is  sweet, 

And  bitter  then,  to  place  one's  neck 
Into  Love's  halter,  to  compete 

With  Destiny,  that  may  but  wreck 
The  hopes  that  should,  and  should  not,  be. 

'T  is  hard  to  fight  thus  'gainst  one's  heart : 
To  long,  yet  dread,  to  e'er  be  free. 

This  state  is  caused  by  Love's  barbed  dart, 
The  shaft,  once  bedded  in  the  breast, 

The  barb  removal  will  prevent : 
And  from  thence  on  there  is  no  rest, 

But  days  and  nights  in  torment  spent. 
When  the  fair  captor  favor  shows, 

And  smiles  upon  the  pleaded  suit, 

He  writhes  in  torture — well  he  knows 
60 


Impatient  frowns  may  be  its  fruit. 
So  must  man  yield  to  what,  it  seems, 
Is  but  an  unrelenting  Fate 

Of  darkened  days  and  bright  sunbeams — 
Ne'er  knowing  when  is  reached  the  gate 

That  opens  up  a  vista  free 

From  whimsic,  changeful  tempers  there, 

And  shows  the  border-land  to  me 
Where  sated  Love  bids  Fear  beware. 


Heart's  Content. 


I  know  a  place  called  Heart's  Conten: — 
Not  in  Newfoundland,  either — 

There  by  my  love  and  me  are  spent 
Our  happiest  hours  together. 

In  Heart's  Content  is  care  forgot, 
And  Hope  displaces  sighing  : 

It's  flow'r  is  the  forget-me-not. 
The  bud  ihat  's  dead  to  dying. 

In  Hearc's  Content  tne  breezes  blow 
With  joyous  sweets  plethoric. 

And  naught  but  peace  have  we  to  know 
Who  feel  their  grand  rhetoric. 

There  heartsease  grows  in  ev'ry  dell, 
Nor  e'er  knows  extirpation  ; 

And  birds  their  raptures  seek  to  tell 
To  many  a  carmed  carnation. 

62 


Sweet  tones,  sweet  airs,  incense  and  prayers 
Rise  from  her  shades  of  gladness : 

Fair  scenes,  fair  faces — each  declares 
Antipathy  for  sadness. 

Dear  Heart's  Content!    Fair  Heart's  Con 
tent! 

May  I  dwell  in  thy  borders. 
Where  ever  linger  airs,  God-sent, 

That  cure  mv  heart's  disorders. 


Future   But  Thee. 


I  have  no  future  where  thou  art  not  queen  ; 

I  see  no  skies,  inviting,  calm,  serene, 

In  which  thine  own  sweet  features  have  no 

part : 
I  know  no  one  with  power  o'er  my  heart 

So  great  as  is  thine  own  ! 
I  feel  no  pulsing  sense  of  heav'nly  hope 
But  that  thy  soul,  to  fill  my  own,  did  ope ; 
I  think  no  thought  of  love  that  doth  not  turn 
To  thee,  with  scope  unknown,  as  fierce  fires 
burn — 

To  thee,  my  love,  alone ! 

I  reach  no  place  in  bold  Ambition's  flight 
That  doth  not  bear  thee  to  that  self-same 

height  ; 
I  dream  no  dream  so  full  of    dreamland's 

haze 
But   morning-light    selects    thee    from    the 

maze 
64 


Of  other  faces,  fair ! 

I  joy  in  naught  that  doth  not  thee  include: 
Aye,  e'en  in  slumber's  God-sent  interlude ! 
I  pray  to  Heaven  never  but  I  feel 
That  thou  and  I  are  joined  in  the  appeal — 

In  life,  in  love,  in  prayer! 


dust  Sixteep  Years  Ago  To-Day. 


Just  sixteen  years  ago  to-day 
My  sweetheart  came  to  earth, 

And,  at  her  feet,  to  homage  pay, 
I  testify  her  worth. 

No  sweeter  seraph  Raphael  saw; 

No  fairer  Portia  pleaded  law  : 

No  daintier  dnrling  art  could  draw, 
Than  she  who  then  knew  birth. 

When  I  would  sing  her  beauties,  rare, 

My  pen  is  stultified  : 
I  love  her !  now,  what  more  is  there 

In  language  can  abide  ? 
I  've  told  her  often  how  I  feel — 
In  fact,  my  love  I  can  't  conceal — 
For  love— its  own  best,  strong  appeal — 

To  this  end  long  has  tried. 

Each  time  I  see  my  soul's  ideal 
She  's  fairer  than  the  last — 

66 


When  thought  I  love  could  but  appeal 

To  beauty  unsurpassed. 
Castalides,  O  lend  your  aid 
Until,  all  homage  duly  paid, 
My  queen  I  crown — the  darling  maid  ! 

My  heart  at  her  feet  cast I 

Euphrosyne,  at  Venus'  feet, 
Her  mistress  thought  was  fair, 

But  had  she  seen  my  own  heart-sweet 
Would  there  have  been  compare? 

I  cannot  see  why,  when  I  woo, 

She  listens — queen  to  subject,  too  ! 

Who  e'er  can  doubt  that  I  '11  be  true 
To  that  love  which  I  swear  I 


A  delicate  forget-me-not 
Was  plucked  in  a  secluded  spot, 
And  on  my  lapel  placed.    The  flow'r 
Was  dead  and  sere  in  but  an  hour. 

I  wonder  will  the  one  who  gave 
The  token,  and  whose  love  I  craver 
Forget  me — withered  be  her  love — 
Will  she  as  fickle  Nature  prove  ? 


68 


A  Valentine — To  fl.    b. 


A  fresh  bud  on  the  New  Year  vine, 
'Round  which  faint  mem'ries  fondly  twine, 
The  day  of  old  St.  Valentine 

Comes,  cheering  souls  that  ache. 
From  youthful  mind  and  sunny  heart 
The  messages  of  love  depart  ; 
Noble  and  plebeian  play  their  part — 

The  part  all  true  hearts  take. 

And  if  there  be  a  wounded  soul 

Who  this  day  loses  self-control, 

And  of  his  love  pours  out  the  whole — 

Who  dares  to  say  him  nay  ? 
For  such  as  he  the  day  was  born, 
Though  all  the  other  days  he  mourn: 
For  Love,  at  once  a  rose  and  thorn, 

Provides  this  gala  day. 

Long  use  has  sanction'd  verbiage,  ripe 

In  form,  for  rhymesters'  notes  to  pipe ; 

69 


I  'II  deviate  from  this  archetype 

And  call  thee  friend — dear  friend! 
Love  may  be  real  and  true,  devout, 
But  Love  and  I  have  long  been  "  out.'" 
One  thing  there  is  I  '11  never  doubt — 
Thou  art  my  friend  till  th'  end  L 


The  Old  bovc's  Claim. 


When  the  Old  Love  we  bid  begone 

Has  left  the  portals  of  the  heart, 

And  other  loves  our  torn  souls  don, 

We  think  the  Old  Love  has  no  part 
Now  in  our  lives.     But  we  awake, 
After  the  lapse  of  joyless  years, 
To  find  Time's  pillow  wet  with  tears 
We  fain  would  hide  for  New  Love's  sake. 

Our  waking  thoughts  may  e'er  be  true 

To  the  New  Love  we  learned  to  wean 
From  old  affections — but  there  grew 

Upon  the  Old  Grave  myrtle  green. 
We  would  deny  the  Old  Love's  claim — 

With  fervor  deify  the  New — 
But  life  has  never  been  the  same 

Since  the  Old  Love  in  tears  withdrew  ! 

The  lucubrations  of  the  heart 
Will  oft  by  mem'ries,  old,  be  led 


Into  a  train  whose  way  had  start 

Back  \n  the  crypt  of  that  Love,  dead. 

And  tho'  we  struggle  to  retain 

In  honesty  the  last-sought  guest, 
A  psychic  tremor  chills  the  breast 

And,  leaving,  'queaths  a  shaft  of  pain. 

The  thought  that  now  seems  apropos, 

Suggested  by  New  Love  and  Old, 
Is,  Can  the  heart  of  man  e'er  know 

The  power  its  pulses'  trends  to  mold  ? 
We  think  we  banish  from  our  sky 

Its  day-star,  tho'  the  whole  it  blight — 
But  sad  years  cry  :  '"  Love  cannot  die  ! 

Thy  youth-love  all  thy  life  will  light  !  " 


hove  ad  I. 


My  love  and  I  one  day  did  walk 

Thro'  fields  where  soon  the  rip'ning  corn 
Will  pendant  hang  from  each  brown  stalk, 

And  catch  the  first  kiss  of  the  morn. 
We  picked  the  May-bells  from  yon  hill, 

That  tow'rs,  majestically  high, 
And  listened  as  the  mount-born  rill 

Told  us  its  tale  —  my  love  and  I. 

It  sang  a  song  so  clear  and  low 

That,  as  we  bent  to  catch  the  sound, 
We  almost  touched  its  icy  flow, 

As  knelt  we  on  the  mossy  ground. 
"  Past  woodland,  green,  and  verdant  waste 

I  speed  along,  and  ne'er  run  dry!" 
We  could  not  list  to  more,  for  haste 

Impelled  us  on  —  my  love  and  I. 

The  sun  oft  hid  behind  a  cloud. 

And  left  us  for  a  moment's  space, 
Emerging,  then,  from  its  light  shroud 

73 


To  glad  with  bright  Miss  Nature's  face. 
It  looked  as  if  a  s.orm  might  come — 

The  dark  clouds  scurried  o'er  the  sky 
And  warned  us  we  should  start  for  home — 

Yet  kept  we  on — my  love  and  I. 

Then  the  great  drops  began  to  fall : 

We  saw  that  it  was  then  too  late  : 
'T  were  better  in  some  nook  to  crawl 

Until  the  tempest  should  abate. 
I  knew  a  spot  where  flowers  grew, 

And  purling  waters  rippled  nigh  : 
We  'd  wait  there  till  the  storm  o'er  blew, 

And  then  go  home — my  love  and  I. 

We  reached  our  goal,  and  with  a  bound 

Leaped  lightly  o'er  the  laughing  brook . 
I  spread  my  coat  upon  the  ground 

To  rest  on  in  our  sheltered  nook. 
'T  was  there  I  offered  her  the  heart 

She  won  in  days  now  long  gone  by  ; 
And  there  we  plighted — ne'er  to  part — 

That  love  which  bound  my  love  and  I. 


Brighter  Than  the  Stars. 


Bright  stars  there  are  in  skies  above — 

The  earth  and  heav'ns  between — 
But  none  so  bright  as  is  the  love 

I  bear  my  heart's  true  queen. 
Their  brilliance  sinks  to  feeble  flame 

With  love  beyond  compare 
Which  easily  their  glow  can  shame 

Before  its  radiance,  rare. 

To  what  shall  liken  I  the  heat 

Of  love's  pure,  changeless  flow  ? 
Methinks  there's  naught  so  full,  complete, 

In  Heav'n  nor  earth  below  ! 
I  thank  the  gods  who  did  endow 

My  love  with  gifts  so  fair, 
That,  filled  with  happiness,  I  bow 

Before  her — Heav'n  is  there  ! 


75 


Four   Years  Ago. 

'T  was  just  four  years  ago,  my  love, 

'T  was  just  four  years  ago, 
That  love  of  you  made  sad  clouds  move, 
As  wintry  winds  the  snow, 
And  gold  beams  cast 
O'er  me,  and  past 
Was  force  of  Sorrow's  blow. 

'T  was  just  four  years  ago,  my  love, 

Years  teeming  with  events  ; 
We  little  knew  the  woe,  my  love, 
We  ?d  look  on  four  years  hence  : 
The  thoughtless  word, 
The  page,  tear-blurr'd, 
Give,  each,  sad  evidence. 

'T  was  just  four  years  ago,  my  love, 

That  in  my  life  was  shed 
The  radiance  true  hearts  know,  my  love, 

Before  youth-love  is  dead  : 

76 


It  merges  clear 
With  life's  each  year, 
As  brooks  to  ocean  led. 

'T  was  just  four  years  ago,  my  lover 

Four  years  of  light  and  shade — 
For  life's  full  records  show,  my  loveT 
That  love  of  both  is  made — 
That  o'er  my  soul 
You  took  control, 
And  gave  me  yours  "  in  trade  !  " 

'T  was  just  four  years  ago,  my  love, 

And  well  I  ween  the  day, 
When  I  became  your  beau,  my  love,- 
You  stole  my  heart  away  ! 
Devoted  yet, 
I  do  n't  regret 
The  love  these  lines  convey. 


I  Cannot  Sin. 

I  cannot  sin :    my  sweetheart  said  her  heart 

was  in  my  breast. 
I  cannot  sin  for  what  she  said — 't  would 

shame  the  sainted  guest. 
I  cannot  sin  :  so  sweet  the  thought  that  she 

is  mine  for  aye  ! 
I  cannot  sin  :  for  if  I  did  her  heart  would 

droop  and  die ! 

I  cannot  sin  :  can  weakness  be  where  Love's 
white  lilies  dwell  ? 

I  cannot  sin  :  can  Heav'n  contain  the  crim 
son  reek  of  Hell? 

I  cannot  sin  :  I  said :  "  My  heart  no  longer 
is  my  own  !  " 

I  cannot  sin :  she  answer  made :  "  Pray, 
keep  mine  as  Love's  loan  !  " 


dust  As  Thou  Art  ! 


Just  as  thou  art  !   I  ask  no  other  boon 
Than  thee  to  clasp  in  these  strong  arms 

of  mine 

Ar.d  feel  thine  own  in  love  around  me 
twine — 

'T  wc-re  not  to  end  so  soon  ! 

Thou  canst  not  cold  remain  fore'er 
And  I  undying  love  declare 

While  gleams  yon  silv'ry  moon  ! 

My  love  is  not  so  thus  to  die : 

No!  Constant  I  '11  remain, 

Tho'  days  may  come  and  days  may  go, 
And  Time  may  have  a  ceaseless  flow, 

And  pale  moons  rise  and  w^ne  : 

I  thee  will  love,  and  hold  most  dear 
The  days  when  to  me  thou  wert  near — 

Say,  love,  will  e'er  they  come  again  ? 

79 


Enchanted  Orouncf. 


The  dream  god  ca.ne  to  me  last  night, 
When  folded  fast  in  Morpheus'  arms. 
A  maid  enslaved  me  by  her  charms — 

Too  fulsome,  they,  for  mortal  sight. 

How  srnll  I  sing  her  beauty's  fame, 
Beside  which  vaunted  Venus'  pales  ? 
Inadequate,  my  language  fails 

To  do  the  justice  she  would  claim. 

And,  wondrous  paradox  !  the  maid 
As  I  to  her,  to  me  was  drawn — 
Doubt  you  I  felt  then  Joy's  day-dawn  ? 

So,  for  my  love,  her  own  she  paid. 

Had  I  but  then  recalled  the  bound 

Past  which  I  stepped  in  dreamland's  play 
I  had  not  been  so  sad  to-day : 

For  I  was  on  enchanted  ground. 

80 


But  I,  like  other  men,  love-daft, 
Forgot  that  it  was  but  a  dream 
From  which,  on  waking,  but  the  theme 

Would  then  remain — a  cruel  shaft ! 

We  two,  in  Somnus'  fair  domains, 

Were  wed — I  know  not  how,  by  whom- 
Dispelled  was  all  my  earth-born  gloom: 

Yet,  of  that  bliss  now  naught  remains! 

And  we  were  happy  in  the  ken 

That  I  loved  her  and  she  loved  me  : 
Existence — ceaseless  ecstasy — 

A  dream  not  oft  bestowed  on  men. 

The  brightest  phantasies  must  end — 
Mine  did  not  an  exception  prove  : 
Recalled  to  earth,  I  left  the  love 

Who  did  with  me  in  dreamland  blend. 


Si 


A  better. 

With  what  glad  anticipation — 
Sense  of  hope's  realization — 

Do  we  burst  th'  envelope  open,  when  the 

postman  makes  his  round  : 
And  our  hearts  take  on  new  lightness 
As  we  tear  apart  the  whiteness 

Separating  from  our  visions  all  the  goodies 

in  it  found. 

Is  it  from  a  "  flame  "  of  youthful 
Days,  when  life  seemed  all  so  truthful? 

Break  the  spotless  bonds  that  bind  it,  mind 
ing  not  the  old  heart-ache  ! 
For  the  days  that  gave  fruition 
But  in  sadness  had  their  mission. 

And  the  love  that  sobbed  its  life  out  for  ex 
perience  way  did  make  ! 
Is  it  from  a  friend,  whose  tidings — 
Interlined  with  copious  chidings 

That  your  letters,  few  and  far  between,  are 

82 


colder  growing — bring 
Bitter  pangs  of  days  forgotten, 
Joys,  companionship-begotten  ? 
Delve  into  its  depths  and,  answ'ring,  Sor 

row's  requiem  't  will  sing  ! 
Is  it  from  your  home-rid  mother, 
Whom  you  left  to  join  another  ? 
Rend  the  seal  with  rev'rence  real  and  read 

her  heart-blood  in  each  line  ! 
Distance,  great,  may  intervene — 
Love  will  memory  keep  green — 
And  that  mother-love  will  ever  'round  your 
inmost  being  twine  ! 


My  Queen. 

A  TRITE  TALE  OF  COURTSHIP  AND  MAN-TRAP, 

I  know  a  charming  maid — my  queen — 

Of  winsome  grace  and  thoughtful  mien  ; 

Her  voice — the  sweetest  ever  heard — 

My  heart's  still  depths  has  strangely  stirr'd  I 

Naught  but  cold  looks  I  sometimes  meet : 

'T  is  then  fain  would  I,  at  her  feet. 

The  story  of  my  love  repeat. — 

Was  ever  wish  than  this  more  sweet  ? 

But  naught  of  this  e'er  comes  about — 

If  e'er  it  will,  I  've  many  a  doubt. 

She  '11  laugh  or  smile  at  what  I  say, 

The  same,  to-morrow,  as  to-day, 

And  yet  her  heait  will  lie  beyond 

Ambitions,  dear,  and  hopes,  most  fond ! 

Ho\v  can  I  pierce  this  wall  of  ice, 

And,  twain  in  one,  our  two  hearts  splice  ? 


I  have  it !     When  all  else  shall  fail 

I  '11  ask  her  out  to  take  a  sail. 

I  '11  row,  and  she  the  craft  shall  steer, 

(  And  she  can  do  it.  never  fear !  ) 

As  we  adown  the  waters  float, 

Together,  in  our  little  boat, 

I  '11  whisper  love -tales  in  her  ear. 

And  breathe  the  hopes  I  hold  most  dear. 

But  will  she  listen  ? — "  There's  the  rub !  " 

I  guess  I  'd  better  send  a  "  sub.  !  " — 

But,  no  !  that  plan  would  never  do — 

For  he  might  love  my  fair  queen,  too, 

And,  thus,  by  "speaking  for  himself," 

Lay  all  my  hopes  upon  the  shelf. 

I  think  /  V  better  do  the  "  job,'' 

And  hear,  with  many  a  strong  heart-throb  : 

"  Yes,  dearest  one,  I  will  be  thine  !  " 

Then  'round  her  neck  these  arms  will  twine! 

Ah,  rapture !     I  will  ask  her  now  ! — 

But,  hold!     I  first  must  find  a  scow  ! 

And  then  I  '11  lead  her  down  the  bank, 

ss 


Nor  give  her  chance  my  pains  to  thank. 
Ah,  without  her  e'en  time  is  drear  ! 
But  I  shall  row,  and  she  shall  steer. 

'T  is  o'er.     I  have  engaged  the  boat — 
The  price  would  shame  a  table  d'hote  ! 
I  fear  my  dream  of  love  't  will  sour  : 
It  costs  me  fifty  cents  an  hour ! 
Should  she  make  answer :  "  Wait  awhile  ! '" 
I  '11  ne'er  again  be  known  to  smile : 
But  pull  for  shore,  on  some  pretense — 

The  truth  is,  I  Ve  but  forty  cents  ! 
*  *  *  * 

I  led  her  down  the  slipp'ry  bank, 

As  proud  as  knight  of  titled  rank. 

The  brown  thrush  sang  its  happiest  noter 

As  merrily  on  went  the  boat. 

Our  hearts  were  strangely  light  and  gay,. 

As  full  of  sunshine  as  the  day. 

The  weather  was  her  op'ning  theme, 

As  swift  we  glided  down  the  stream-  - 

86 


But  I  was  thinking  of  some  way 

To  make  off  when  't  came  time  to  pay ! 

Soon  my  restraint  I  cast  aside — 

In  tones  of  tend'rest  passion  cried: 

"  O,  dearest  one.  my  soul's  love  dream 

To  you  but  stultified  may  seem  : 

But,  answer — May  we,  side  by  side, 

Stem  life's  deep  waters  and  their  tide  ?  " 

*  *  *  * 

Now,  reader,  I  suppose  you  think 

My  mind  was  poised  on  reason's  brink. 

And  that,  my  ardor,  fierce,  to  cool 

She  told  me  not  to  be  a  fool  ? 

She  answered  nothing  of  the  kind — 

A  diff'rent  thought  was  in  her  mind  : 

"  I  'm  with  you,  love,  for  life — fore'er — 

And  you  can  row — but  /  shall  steer  !  " 

*  *  *  * 

I  waited  not  to  hear  aught  more, 
But  quickly  headed  for  the  shore, 
And,  landing  her  upon  the  quay, 

87 


I  kissed  her  hands  in  ecstasy. 

'T  was  done!  'T  was  won!  My  fairie  flow'r  ! 

And  won  in  but  a  short  half  hour  ! 

Was  fair  maid  e'er  won  in  shorter? 

As  it  was,  I  owed  a  quarter ! 

*  *  *  * 

These  ten  long  years,  as  man  and  wife, 
We  've  battled  with  the  storms  of  life  : 
And  children  came  to  bless  our  home, 
As  sunbeams  out  of  darkness  come. 
But  oft  in  fancy  do  I  roam 
To  that  day  when,  in  early  gloam. 
I  asked  my  queen  to  be  my  wife, 

Where  wind  met  waves  in  noisy  strife. 
*  *  *  * 

Often  in  smiles,  seldom  in  tears. 
I  'm  at  the  oars,  and  she  still  steers. 

SAULT  DE  STE.  MARIE,  MICH.,   1890. 


Spiritual    Selections, 


During  a  Snow-Storm. 


The  snow  in  white  flakelets  is  falling  to-day, 
So  let  us  be  merry,  while  merry  we  may ! 
To-morrow,   old   earth   may  return  to  her 

gloom — 
These  tired,  world-lorn  bodies  repose  in  the 

tomb': 

The  spirit  to  the  spirit-world  take  its  flight — 
Blest  realm,  where    no   sorrow  or   trouble 

brings  night  ! 
The  snow  is  most  beautiful  :    but  there  's  a 

place 

Eternal,  forever  existing  in  space  : 
With  which  the  snow  we  love — yet  shrink 

from  its  touch — 
Cannot   compare  :    for  there  is  none  other 

such  ! 


9> 


Quiet 


How  restful  is  the  quiet  hour  : 

How  soothing  't  is,  and  sweet, 
When,  freed  from  all  the  tempter's  power, 

I  rest  at  Jesus'  feet. 
Rest  from  the  trials  that  oppress, 

And  make  life  dead  to  me : 
I  muse  on  Jesus'  tenderness, 

And  bathe  me  in  its  sea. 

How  pleasant  from  the  world  to  keep  : 

The  world  of  noise  and  care  ! 
What  sweet  joy  comes  to  walk  and  weep 

With  Jesus,  over  there  ! — 
Not  over  there,  but  at  my  side 

He  's  walking,  day  by  day  : 
How  can  I  wander  with  that  Guide 

To  keep  me  in  the  way  ? 

I  cannot  see  the  reason  why 

I  am  by  care  oppres't, 
92 


When  He  will  hear  my  ev'ry  cry, 

And  take  me  to  His  breast  ! 
O,  Soul,  why  shouldst  thou  fear,  or  doubt 

His  mercy  and  His  care, 
When  He  has  driven  Satan  out, 

And  placed  His  sunshine  there  ? 

O,  Heart,  why  weary  grow,  and  faint. 

When  presses  sore  the  foe, 
When  thou  canst  break  from  its  restraint, 

And  to  thy  Captain  go  ? 
Why  shouldst  thou  struggle  on  alone, 

Trusting  in  thine  own  might — 
Trying,  in  vain,  to  hold  thine  own 

In  the  unequal  fight  ? 

How  pleasant  't  is  to  lose  myself 

In  Jesus'  loving  arms — 
Forgetting  worldly  pomp  and  pelf: 

The  thing  that  snares  and  charms. 
I  rise,  refreshed  :  my  languor  gone  : 

93 


Trials  have  flown  away : 
And,  like  the  bird  at  early  dawn, 
Push  once  more  into  day. 

CALAIS,  ME.,  1891. 


94 


Ketributiop. 


The  angels  weep  to-morrow  : 

To-day,  man  weakly  falls  : 
The  angels  weep  for  sorrow 

In  lightsome  heav'nly  halls. 

The  sons  of  men,  disdainful. 

Scorn's  finger,  cruel,  point  : 
And  Sin's  heart-wound,  tho'  painful, 

With  virus  they  anoint. 

His  quondam  friends,  hard-hearted, 

Repudiate  his  name : 
From  each  dear  tie  he  's  parted. 

By  reason  of  ill-fame. 

Could  he  have  viewed  the  ending 

That  Sin's  path  had  in  store, 
Would  he,  with  will  quick-bending, 

Have  fallen,  as  before  ? 

95 


A  good  name — precious  treasure  !- 
Once  lost,  man  can't  regain  : 

And  Sin  doles  out  its  measure 
Of  woe  in  man's  disdain. 

The  angels  weep  to-morrow : 
To-day,  man  weakly  falls : 

The  angels  weep  for  sorrow 
In  lightsome  heav'nly  halls. 


Year  Resolutiops. 


"  New  Year  " — what  possibilities 
In  thee  the  wearied  sinner  sees  : 

What  chance  for  better-doing! 
What  hope  to  right  the  wrong  of  years  : 
To  reap  in  joy  seed  sown  in  tears, 

Despite  others'  construing. 

The  struggling  son  of  Adam — born, 
It  oft-times  seems,  to  live  to  mourn 

Too  ready  acquiescence 
When  flesh  and  spirit  warfare  waged, 
Power's  balance  leaving,  weak,  engaged 

Against  his  own  soul's  prescience — 

Takes  firmer  hold  on  sweeter  life — 
Sweeter  because  of  beck'nings,  rife, 

To  walk  in  higher  places ! 
Far  in  the  future's  horoscope 
But  one  star  gleams — the  Star  of  Hope — 

And  'round  it  group  the  graces 

97 


He  fain  would  woo,  in  intent,  strong, 
Tho'  bitter  be  the  strife,  and  long, 

And  rough  the  way  up-leading. 
Help  with  your  prayers,  ye  strong  in  faith, 
Those  hope  to  whom  is  but  a  wraith, 

Advancing  and  receding. 


Negative  Thanksgiving. 


HABAKKUK  iii,  17-19. 

Tho'  the  fig  tree  shall  not  blossom, 

Neither  fruit  be  in  the  vine ; 
Labour  of  the  olive  faileth, 

Lean  and  wretched  be  the  kine  ; 
And,  no  wheat  the  green  fields  yielding, 

Want  stands  out  in  profile,  bold, — 
Give  your  thanks!  for  One  is  shielding 

Ev'ry  soul  who  owns  His  fold. 

Once  the  fields,  with  flocks  plethoric, 

Promise  gave  of  plenteous  store  : 
Emptied,  now,  in  ev'ry  corner, 

And  their  place  knows  them  no  more. 
Herds  that  in  the  stalls  were  lowing, 

Nearby  to  the  garner'd  grain, 
Faint  and  fall,  to  earth,  bestowing 

That  which  shall  not  live  again. 

99 


He  Who  walks  in  highest  places,. 

Bidding  earth-worn  souls  to  come,. 
Freely  gives  to  all  His  graces 

Who  regard  his  home,  sweet  home. 
Lift  your  hearts,  in  God  rejoicing! 

Thank  Him  you,  unworthy,  live^ — 
Thus,  your  soul  and  mind  loud  voicing 

A  Thanksgiving  negative  L 


A  Prodigal's  Return. 


Thro'    dark'ning   mists   of    shame-wrought 

tears : 

Thro'  low'ring  mists  of  fruitless  years: 
Full,  shining  bright,  a  star  appears — 

God's  love,  so  long  untasted  ! 
Tho'  I  rebelled — threw  off  the  yoke 
Of  Him  Who  pardon  to  me  spoke — 
No  joyful  sprite  could  I  invoke  : 

My  life  was  barren,  wasted. 

In  worldly  joys  I  sought  to  dim 
Rememb'rance  of  the  thought  of  Him 
Who  braved,  for  me,  the  cross-bent  limb — 

Endured  the  agony  ! 
But  joy  I  knew  not,  nor  her  face, 
Until  implored  I  Jesus'  grace  : 
He  gave  a  welcome  to  the  place 

Unfilled — reserved  for  me  ! 


My  Evening  Prayer. 


On,  stealthily,  the  shadows  creep, 

And  'round  about  me  fall  : 
And  soon  the  restful  monarch,  Sleep,. 

Will  hold  me  in  his  thrall. 
I  bend  the  knee  beside  my  bed, 

And  tell  all  that  day's  cares 
To  One  Who,  in  His  Word,  has  said 

He  'd  hear  my  feeble  prayers. 

I  tell  of  vict'ries  in  His  name, 

When  were  temptations  rife  : 
And,  boldly,  His  sweet  promise  claim 

For  victories  all  through  life. 
I  pour  my  troubles  and  my  woes 

Into  His  waiting  ear  : 
And  calm  peace  comes  to  know  He  knows 

About  them,  and  is  near. 

The  shades  of  night  creep  on  apacey 
But  with  them  comes  no  fear  : 

103 


For  I  have  sought  and  found  the  face 

Of  my  Redeemer,  dear. 
He  's  heard  the  story  of  the  day — 

He  knew  it  ere  't  was  told — 
And,  tho'  the  skies  are  cold  and  gray, 

I  'm  safe  within  His  fold. 

My  prayer  is  said  :  the  answer,  sure  : 

And  yet  I  linger  there : 
For  to  my  ear,  with  passion  pure, 

There  comes  another  prayer — 
One  ?     Yes,  and  more  :  e'en  numberless 

The  nightly  prayers  that  rise 
From  God's  beloved  in  distress, 

Who  wait  for  sweet  replies  ! 

I  hear  a  Voice  :  "  Son,  not  alone 

Ascends  thy  helpless  call 
To  Him  Who,  from  His  mighty  throne, 

Notes  ev'ry  sparrow's  fall : 
For  many  millions,  at  this  hour, 


Are  low  bowed  at  His  feet, 

Imploring  for  the  Spirit's  pow'r. 

The  day  to  make  complete." 

I  fear  no  evil  nigh  my  head  : 

Omnipotent  the  care 
Of  Him  Whose  angels,  o'er  my  bed, 

Anticipate  each  prayer. 
And,  tho'  the  world  misjudge  my  ways, 

I  shall  not  fear  or  weep : 
But  live  a  life  of  ceaseless  praise. 

And  enter  in  His  sleep. 

CALAIS,  ME.,  1891. 


104 


Easter. 

To-day,  the  Easter  lilies  bloom, 

When  came  from  out  the  grewsome  tomb 

The  Lord  of  tide  and  time. 
To-day,  we  loud  hosannas  sing : 
Hosannas  to  our  risen  King, 
Who  came  to  earth  His  peace  to  bring — 

Was  love  e'er  more  sublime  ? 

No  more  dominion  now  has  Death  : 
These  are  the  words  the  Good  Book  saith  : 

For  dieth  He  no  more  ! 
To-day,  we  raise  our  glad  acclaim 
To  glorify  our  Lord's  dear  name  : 
Past,  present,  future,  e'er  the  same — 

This  Christ  Whom  we  adore  ! 

For,  as  in  Adam  dieth  all. 
In  Christ  is  ta'en  away  Death's  thrall. 
And  Azrael's  bitter  sting. 

105 


Rejoice,  ye  sons  of  men,  rejoice  ! 
Let  ev'ry  heart  and  ev'ry  voice 
With  songs  of  joy  laud  Heaven's  Choice- 
The  Glorified,  the  King! 

Ye  who  are  risen  with  the  Lord. 
Raise  psalms  of  joy  with  one  accord  : 

And  seek  those  things  above. 
Where  sitteth,  e'er,  at  God's  right  hand 
The  Lord  of  life,  of  sea,  of  land — 
The  Fairest  of  the  fair  that  stand 

In  th'  heav'n  of  purest  love  ! 

To-day,  the  Easter  lilies  bloom  : 
To-day,  dispell'd  is  all  earth's  gloom — 

The  risen  Christ  is  Lord  ! 
In  beauty,  brighter  than  the  light 
Of  moon  and  stars  in  skies  at  night, 
He  reigns,  in  spotless  ermine-white — 

By  earth  and  heav'n  adored! 


106 


"A    Ltittle    Child    Shall    bead    Them.' 


The  surpliced  choir  an  anthem  sang  : 

The  notes  were  all  correct : 
From  the  mosaic'd  chancel  rang 

The  songs  of  God's  elect. 
Each  part  was  represented  there, 

And  perfect  was  the  time — 
For  each  was  paid  the  part  to  bear 

In  melody  sublime. 

But  that  day  music  seemed  to  lack 

Its  pow'r  to  fill  the  soul : 
And  echo  sent  the  sweet  sounds  back, 

With  long  and  measur'd  roll. 
The  preacher  prayed  and  sermonized  : 

A  goodly  man  was  he : 
And  told  of  that  Life  sacrificed 

On  the  remorseless  tree. 

The  sermon  o'er :    "  Now,  rise  and  sing," 

107 


The  p:irson  slowly  said. 
"  O,  Death,  where  is  thy  vaunted  sting?" 

The  parson  slowly  read. 
Full  out  upon  the  sacred  air 

A  childish  treble  soared : 
"  Ye  men  of  Israel,  prepare 

The  way  of  Christ,  the  Lord !  " 

All  through  the  hymn  the  sweet  child-tone 

Prevail'd,  in  accents,  clear : 
And  men  and  women,  hardened  grown, 

Brushed  back  th'  unbidden  tear. 
The  days  of  childhood — mem'ries  old — 

Seemed  fresh  as  yestermorn: 
And  men  who  lived  now  but  for  gold 

Felt  higher  impulse  born. 

And  hypocrites — sepulchres,  white  ! — 
Whose  hearts  no  man  could  read. 

Felt  in  their  souls  God's  richest  light — 
Thus  did  the  child-song  plead. 

ioS 


Dark  brows,  that  care  had  furrow'd  deep, 

Grew  smoother,  even  calm  : 
Souls  dormant  woke  from  sin's  death-sleep 

At  sound  of  that  sweet  psalm. 

And  when  the  song  had  died  away, 

The  minister  knelt  down : 
"Brothers  and  sisters,  let  us  pray!" 

He  said,  and  smoothed  his  gown. 
But  never  mind  about  his  prayer — 

The  child-voice  stirr'd  each  heart : 
And  ev'ry  man  and  woman  there 

For  holier  ways  made  start. 


109 


A  Soliloquy. 

Far  out  upon  the  sunlit  stream, 
The  oarsman  sweeps  the  blade  : 

See  how  it  glitters  with  the  gleam 
By  heav'nly  sunlight  made ! 

And  now  they  're  feathered  by  the  hand 
Deep-skilled  with  life-long  use  : 

And,  as  he  nears  the  pebbly  strand, 
He  casts  each  long  oar  loose. 

Too  soon,  my  brother,  strong  the  tide 

Sweeps  in  around  thy  boat, 
Just  as,  with  selfish,  greedy  pride 

The  miser  learns  to  gloat. 

Too  soon  thoust  cast  thine  oar  aside — 
Trusting  thy  barque  to  fate: 

And  unrelentlessly  the  tide 
Sweeps  toward  its  ocean  gate. 

How  true  it  is  that  many  a  soul 
Too  soon  throws  down  the  oar : 


Thinking  that  it  has  reached  the  goal, 
When  intervenes  much  more. 

In  triumph's  flush,  the  pleasure's  flame 
Quick  casts  each  barrier  down  : 

We  ask  for  naught  but  fleeting  fame, 
And  sigh  for  laurel'd  crown. 

Full  many  a  soul  abandons  Cross, 

Because  of  Crown  assured : 
But  to  all  such  't  will  be  but  loss 

Who  have  not  long  endured. 

We  trust  too  much  to  what  our  strength 

Accomplished  in  the  past, 
But  we  awaken  when,  at  length, 

Our  barque  bends  to  the  blast. 

Then  let  us  not  forego  the  oar. 

Because  of  rest  we  miss: 
Repose  we  have  not  till  we  soar 

To  realms  of  changeless  bliss. 


An  Easter  Anthem. 


Ye  hosts  of  Heaven  bow  the  head — 

For  Christ,  the  Lord,  is  risen  ! 
He  left  the  dark  place  of  the  dead — 

The  Saviour,  Christ,  is  risen  ! 
The  spotless  Son  of  God,  Who  came 
Lost,  fallen  man  to  save — reclaim 
Him  by  the  fall  born  to  its  blame — 
Yea,  Christ,  the  Lord,  is  risen  ! 

The  first-fruits  of  the  souls  that  slept 

Became  He  Who  is  risen! 
And  Mary's  tears,  in  anguish  wept, 

Availed,  for  Christ  is  risen ! 
Let  sounds  of  sorrow  change  to  joy: 
Let  ev'ry  heart  its  all  employ  : 
For  One  Whom  death  could  not  destroy- 
E'en  Christ,  the  Lord,  is  risen  ! 

Triumphant  over  death  and  sin, 
Jesus,  the  Lord,  is  risen  ! 


In  Thee,  alone,  can  life  begin, 

My  Saviour,  now  arisen  ! 
My  soul  Thy  name  doth  magnify. 
Dear  Lord,  for  Whom  't  was  not  to  die ! 
Now  rings  the  chorus,  loud,  on  high, 

For  Christ,  the  Lord,  is  risen  ! 


"3 


ancl  Personal 


IVIrs.   Harrison. 


Columbia  bows  her  head,  and  sobs 

The  grief  she  cannot  speak, 
For  in  her  arteries  there  throbs 

Sorrow,  that  Death  should  seek 
The  fireside  of  her  honored  chief, 

And  steal  away  his  love  : 
Thus  't  is  our  hearts  are  bowed  with  grief — 

We  can  but  look  above 
To  where,  secure  from  earthly  pain, 

Safe  in  the  Hav'n  of  Rest, 
Her  spirit  waits  till,  once  again, 

It  joins  him  she  loved  best. 
Her  deeds  of  love  and  charity 

Live  after,  and  are  writ 
On  hearts  of  all  humanity 

Who  reaped  her  benefit. 
No  more  let  weeping  now  be  heard  : 

Caroline  Harrison 

"7 


Has  lived  to  hear  the  Master's  word  : 
"  My  faithful  child,  well  done  1 " 

OCTOBER  26,  1892. 


dances  Gillespie  Blaipe. 


" '  The  Plumed  Knight '  we  loved  is  dead !  " 

So  ran  the  word 

Where'er  is  heard 
The  sound  of  speech,  or  print  is  read. 

Azrael  triumphed  o'er  the  will 

Of  iron  strength, 

And,  then,  at  length, 
Mors'  accents  spoke,  and  all  was  still. 

In  life,  respect  was  his  :  and  love 

For  service  done, 

Fresh  laurels  won 
From  those  who  did  his  course  approve. 

His  life  was  one  of  peace :  his  end — 

So  long  foreseen — 

Calm  and  serene  : 
So  did  the  Pine  to  Boreas  bend  ! 

"9 


Forgot  be  all  the  dark  that  gave 

But  blighted  hope  : 

His  horoscope 

Could  but  foretell  his  end  :  the  grave. 
WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  JAN.  28,  1893. 


Gen.  John  A.   Logan. 


Let  poets  sing  of  conquests  done : 
Of  battles  fought,  and  vict'ries  won  : 
But  Logan — than  whom  stronger  mind 
And  braver  heart  in  clay  confined 
Had  never  life — knew  need  of  none 
His  praise  to  sing.     Where  shines  the  sun 
On  nation  blessed  with  human  light 

But  Logan's  name 

And  Logan's  fame 
Forestalled  its  glories  ere  the  night? 

« 
Each  rain  drop,  falling  when  he  died, 

Drip'd  Heaven's  tears  at  that  bed-side! 
And  ev'ry  tree  that  sigh'd  in  wood 
Bemoaned  his  death — the  noble,  good  ! 
His  countrymen  knelt  by  that  crypt, 
Where  lay  his  mold,  of  life-beat  strip't  : 
And  no  one  paused  beside  the  bier 


Of  warrior — seer, 
But  left  a  tear 
To  tell  the  angels  he  was  dear. 

WASHINGTON.  D.  C.,  JAN.  10,  1887. 


Lord  Alfred  Tennyson. 


Unstring  his  lyre,  and  lay  it  by 

Britain's  dead  poet's  side  : 
The  fount  of  feeling  is  not  dry 

Tho'  Tennyson  has  died  ! 
He  lived  while  we  were  yet  unborn  : 

He  sang  ere  we  could  speak: 
His  life,  as  pure  as  nascent  morn, 

Tho'  wild  winds  blew,  and  bleak. 
We  mourn  him.     Aye,  the  man  who  led 

Our  minds  to  depths  most  deep 
Shall  have  our  love,  tho'  life  has  fled, 

And  we  are  left  to  weep. 

OCTOBER  8,  1892. 


Edward   Everett 


His  word-simplicity  frown'd  pomp  to  shame, 

And    homely  thoughts   yield,   'neath    his 

pen,  pure  gold : 

He  sought  not,  yet  it  found  him  out,  glow'd 
fame  : 

And  truth  of  spirit  marked  each  tale  he 

told. 
His  was  the  story-teller's  art :  and  plain 

The  inspiration  that  controll'd  his  mind  : 
His  was  the  glory  that  can  know  no  wane: 

And  his  the  satisfaction  good  men  find. 
He  wrote  in  words  that  shone  with  honesty : 

He  breathed  his  love  for  God  in  ev'ry  line : 
He  taught  us  love  of  country  as  best  he 

Was  able— his  love  bordered  the  divine  ! 


124 


Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 


Her  practis'd   hand  struck  chords  of  pas- 

sion'd  wealth  : 

Her  repertoiie — the  gamut  of  the  soul — 
Was  swept  with  grand  effect.     The  forced 

s'ealth 
Of  thought  play'd  'round  her  lyre,  and  to 

control. 
She   sang    her   heait-songs,   sweet,  to   airs 

that  all, 
Who  know  that  pow'r  within  themselves, 

may  feel  : 

She  sounded  to  the  dormant  clay  the  call 
Of  passion,  strung  to  notes  of  purpose, 

real. 

To  her  the  thanks  of  reawaken'd  hearts 
Are   due.     Her  lays  of  faultless-molded 

fashion 

Will  live  in  future  days,  and  play  their  parts 
When  dust  remains  of  the  Poet  of  Pas 
sion. 

"5 


^Miscellaneous 


A  Ppeumatological  Query. 

Oh,  tell  me,  ye  spirits  who  rove  at  the  bid 

Of  a  Spirit  in  majesty  'rayed, 
In  a  world  from  the  sight  of  earth-lorn  men 
hid. 

Where  One,  Prajapati,  is  obeyed  : 
Do  ye  efforts  note  Veda's  light  to  increase 

Of  truth-seekers  here  on  earth  below  ? 
We  abjure  our  souls   their  vain    struggles 
surcease : 

But  yet  but  unrest  have  we  to  know. 

Oh,  tell  me,  ye  souls  who  from  earth-scenes 

have  fled 

To  lands  where  conception  Sruti  knew  : 
Will  the  hopes,  prized  immortal,  fore'er  be 

dead — 

The  hopes  that  did  with  joy  life  imbue  ? 
We  mortals,  short-sighted,  see  with  finite 
eyes  : 


Reason,    likewise    dwarfed,    pierces    no 

more  : 

Will  Immortality's  star,  acronic,  rise 
At  Death  upon  a  golden-sheen'd  shore  ? 


130 


Christmas. 

'T  is  Christmas  time ! 

The  joy-bells  chime  ! 
And  merry  voices,  singing, 

Recall  to  earth 

The  Saviour's  birth — 
New  life  to  mortals  bringing. 

Each  glad  yule-tide 

The  whole  world,  wide, 
With  laughter  sets  to  ringing! 

While  in  the  skies, 

We  may  surmise, 
Angelic  choirs  are  singing. 

The  icy  flow 

The  brook-elves  know 
Is  stopped,  and,  o'er  it  flinging  . 

A  mantle,  white, 

Comes  in  the  night 
Old  Kris,  with  bells  a-jingling. 


'3* 


The  cold  wind,  blown 
O'er  graves,  moss-grown,. 

Makes  music  'mongst  the  dead 
Among  the  boughs 
Bad  sprites  carouse 

Noisily  overhead. 

O,  joyous  day, 

For  once  portray 
To  these  weak  hearts  of  ours 

That  day  of  days 

When  Him  we  praise 
Came,  in  the  land  of  flowers  I 

And  shepherds,  wild. 

The  infant  Child 
Beheld,  with  reverent  love : 

While  Cherubim 

And  Seraphim 
Sent  blessings  from  abovfc. 


"  '92  ad  '93. 


Slowly  across  the  mount  of  Time 

Two  trav'lers  wend  their  way: 
Carefully,  painf  ly,  up  they  climb, 

For  one  is  old  and  grey. 
The  other,  a  fair,  bright-eyed  youth, 

With  merry,  dancing  eye, 
Minds  not  the  weary  climb  —  forsooth, 

The  Old  One  soon  must  die. 
They  sight  a  mile-stone  far  ahead  : 

The  Grey  Beard  sees  his  end  : 
A  few  more  rods  of  road  they  tread, 

And  then  is  reached  the  bend. 
On  one  side  of  the  stone,  they  knew, 

Altho'  they  could  not  see, 
Were  cut  the  figures,  u  '92  "- 

On  th'  other,  '"93." 
A  parting  shake  :  a  far-reach'd  sigh  : 

They  part  —  each  to  his  own  — 
The  elders  day  has  come  to  die  : 

The  youth's  to  walk  alone  ! 


The  Poet's  ]VIake-up. 


T  is  not  the  faculty  to  rhyme, 

Tho'  quaint  may  be  the  thought, 
That  makes  the  poet  of  our  time, 

By  whom  great  things  are  wrought, 
'T  is  not  the  gift  to  tell  a  tale 

In  measured,  flowing  verse — 
To  write  in  words  that  never  fail, 

For  better  or  for  worse. 

It  is  the  pow'r  to  sympathize 

With  Nature  in  her  moods  : 
To  read  the  thought  in  violet  eyes, 

And  in  the  cloud  that  broods 
With  features,  low'ring,  sullen,  blackr 

O'er  landscape,  beast  and  man, — 
To  linger  in  the  tempest's  track, 

And  therein  find  God's  plan. 


Destiny. 

NOW. 
When  present  scenes  are  ripe  with  gloom 

And  sadness, 
We  think  the  future  years  have  room 

For  gladness  : 
Nor  thought  of  youth's  departed  bloom — 

Gay  madness ! 

THEN. 
We  retrospect  the  flight  of  years 

And  paining, 
And  see,  as  now,  the  self-same  fears 

Restraining 
Our  hopes  and  joys  :  but  with  sad  tears 

Complaining. 


"35 


Unreality. 

These  beauteous  things  we  often  touch, 

And  handle  with  delight — 
Are  they  all  real  ?     We  love  them  much 

Yet  oft  they  fade  from  sight. 
A  loved  one's  kiss  may  be  bestowed  : 

As  one  the  hearts  respond  ; 
IndiflPrence  comes  :  takes  its  abode, 

And  withers  Love's  gold  frond. 


136 


Waiting. 

I  wait,  and  wait,  and  wait — for  what  ? 

For  favored  Fortune's  smile  ? 
Or  for  the  passing  of  some  spot 

From  off  my  life's  sun-dial  ? 
Yes,  that  is  it  :  my  light  is  hid 

Beneath  a  bushel's  gloom  : 
I  hither  go  at  Fancy's  bid — 

Devoid  of  Hope's  bright  bloom. 

A  melancholy  person — I, 

Who  joy  personified 
In  those  bright  days,  now  long  gone  by, 

And  live  now  self  to  chide  ? 
But  I  am  waiting.     As  I  wait 

To  hear  my  joy-bells  ring, 
I  fancy  that  a  pard'ning  Fate 

May  take  back  ev'rything. 

Why  can  I  never  have  heartsease 
Growing  about  my  nest? 


'37 


But  God's  ways  do  not  always  please, 
E'en  if  they  turn  out  best. 

The  darken'd  cloud  may  yet  reveal 
A  silver  lining's  sheen  : 

Now  o'er  my  mem'ry  voices  steal — 
Her  fields  are  ever  green. 


its 


Thought. 

The  day  in  long,  gray  shadows  merges  into 

early  night, 
And,  nestward  bound,  on  leaden  wing,  the 

weary  birds  take  flight ; 
Dark  shadows  fall  athwart  the  sky  :  the  sun 

has  ta'en  his  leave  : 
And  moon   and   stars  the  firmament  with 

silv'ry  glimm'rings  cleave. 
The  laborer,  his  day's  work  done — a  happy, 

sensual  clod  ! — 
Is  home,  with  wife  and   little   ones.     Yes, 

let  him  thank  his  God 
That  golden  dreams  of  wealth  and  fame  do 

not  beset  his  heart ! 
Content,  he  eats  his  crust  and  drinks  that 

for  him  set  apart. 
Would  that  I  might  escape  an  hour  from 

thought  of  what  has  been  : 
And,  in  oblivion,  forget  all — forget  all,  e'en 

my  sin ! 

'39 


Forget  that  e'er   I  loved  and  wooed — but 

loved  and  wooed  in  vain — 
Forget  that  happiness  is  gone  :  forget  e'en 

to  complain  ! 
'T  is  twilight  hour,  and  I  'm  alone — alone : 

yes — but  for  Thought  ! — 
Would  that    my  guest  would  now   depart, 

with  all  the  train  he  brought ! 
I  fear  too  oft  I  sought  his  face  when  first 

he  came  :  his  stay 
Bids  fair  to  be  a  lengthy  one — forever  and 

a  day. 


140 


To  a   Little  Cr;ild. 


Kind  Heaven  sends  a  sunbeam,  now  and 

then, 

Dispersing  clouds  of  sorrow,  joy-defying, 
Dispelling  tears  and  mundane  sounds  of 

sighing, 

And    gladdening   the  souls   of    sin-starved 
men. 

Fill'd  with  the  freshening  vigor  of  the  morn, 
With  smiles  for  those  who  seldom  know 

but  tears  : 
Unconscious   of    the    coming    troublous 

years — 
Exuberant,  and  free  from  cares,  unborn. 


Beyond  the  Tears. 


There  are  times  when  the  light  seems  to  die 

in  our  lives, 

And  we  turn,  for  relief,  to  the  grave  : 
And  we  write  in    the    tome    of    our   tear- 

blurr'd  archives 
These  few  words  :  "  Soul,  look  up,  and  be 

brave  !  " 
And  we  see  naught  ahead  but  the  sad  grind 

of  years, 

With  their  tale  of  distress  and  defeat  : 
But  we  smile,   tho*  the    hope-light  is  wet 

with  our  tears, 

When  we   think  that  in  Heav'n  is  rest, 
sweet. 

There  are  times  when  our  hearts  to  no  joy- 
songs  respond  : 
When  life's  whole  deaden'd  is,  blank  and 

sere  : 
143 


But  we  see,  thro'  the  lift  of  the  veil,  that 

beyond 

Which  our  sorrows  but  make  us  to  near. 
Oh,'  how  glad  is  the  thought,  tho',  at  times, 

't  is  forgot, 

That  our  hearts  we  must  leave  here  below : 
For  the  sin  they  contain  would  but  sad  all 

our  lot 
Should  we  bear  them  above  when  we  go. 


143 


Thrice  Happy  H«- 

Thrice  happy  he  whose  soul  responds 

To  songs  of  minor  key ! 
Who  never  knew  Ambition's  bonds  : 

Again,  thrice  happy  he  ! 
A  master,  unrelenting,  stern. 
Whose  fires  are  never  quenched,  but  burn 
Forever,  in  that  crucial  urn, 

The  heart  ot  man,  once  free. 

Thrice  happy  he  who,  in  content, 

Laughs  loud  at  carping  Care  ! 
With  soul  on  present  pleasure  bent, 

And  sadden 'd  moments,  rare, 
He  feels  no  longings  after  Fame, 
Nor  wish  to  make  for  him  a  name  : 
His  heart  ne'er  knew  the  gods'  hot  flame, 

Nor  depth  of  soul-despair. 


144 


A  Query. 

When  this  corporeal  frame  of  mine, 

Now  full  of  life  as  nectar'd  wine, 

Is  from  man's  vision  laid  away 

Till  earth  shall  claim  the  God-lent  clay — 

Will  any  one  pause  at  my  bier 

To  say  :  "  A  friend  I  loved  lies  here  !  " 

And  will  my  virtues  be  recalled 

By  those  whom  Friendship's  ties  enthrall'd  ? 

Will  any  one  my  sleep  regret  ? — 

'T  is  but  the  payment  of  life's  debt 

Contracted  ere  I  knew  birth's  fact, 

Or  subscribed  to  the  fatal  pact  ! 

Will  any  human  call  me  friend 

When  mundane  things  shall  have  an  end? 

And  will  the  love  I  bear  for  one 

Make  soft  that  heart  when  life  is  done? 


While  on  the  H°°k  Mountain. 


I  wandered  to  the  mountain-side, 

To  seek  out  mind-repose, 
And  looked  down  on  the  Hudson's  tide. 

Just  as  it  ebbs  and  flows. 
I  scaled  the  beetling  precipice. 

And  from  that  lofty  seat 
I  looked  far  down  the  deep  abyss, 

Where  wind  and  waters  meet. 

I  went  on,  where  the  gnarled  oak 

Stood,  in  gaunt  majesty, 
And  listened  as  the  waters  spoke, 

And  told  strange  tales  to  me. 
I  heard  the  tree-tops  sigh  and  creak, 

As  in  the  wind  they  swayed  : 
I  gazed  far  up  the  topmost  peak. 

And  then  down  shaded  glade. 

I  picked  the  May-bells  as  they  grew 
Among  the  rocks  and  moss, 


And  violets,  of  azure  hue, 

Made  heavier  my  cross. 
I  spied  a  rock  shaped  like  a  chair, 

And  there  sat  as  I  wrote, 
While  bending,  from  my  seat,  mid-air, 

O'er  many  a  passing  boat. 

I    dreamed    and    dozed    and    dozed    and 
dreamed, 

As  Nature  urged  to  rest — 
And  yet  she  never  fairer  seemed 

Than  from  my  eyrie  nest. 
The  hawk  and  eagle  spread  their  wings, 

And  far  beneath  me  flew  : 
Yet — tho'  above  terrestrial  things — 

I  was  above  them,  too. 


Thanksgiving. 

So  many  blessings  crowd  our  pathr 

So  rich  with  full  fruition,, 
We  scarce  feel  their  sweet  aftermath  r 

Appreciate  their  mission. 
With  joys  familiar  we  become, 

Nor  see  in  them  God's  working: 
In  duties,  tho'  they  be  hum-drum, 

We  find  but  means  for  shirking  : 
We  see  the  sunshine  all  the  earth 

With  cheery  hues  adorning  : 
And  oft  our  hearts,  when  dead  to  mirthr 

Respond  to  naught  but  mourning. 
And  Nature's  beauties  crown  the  lot 

Wherein  God  willed  our  living, 
And  yet  His  mercies  are  forgot — 

Our  hearts  are  unforgiving 
Toward  some  one  of  human-kind 

Who  may,  perchance,  have  wronged  us. 
Why  cherish  hatred  in  the  mind 


When  God  with  love  has  thronged  us  ? 
We  fail  to  see,  behind  some  cloud 

Of  woe,  to  us  appearing, 
Soul-strength  or  beauty,  God-endow'd. 
Which,  by  that  cross,  we  're  nearing. 
God's  purposes  we  cannot  pierce 

With  finite  understanding, 
And  oft  behind  a  tempest,  fierce. 

Lies  safety,  notwithstanding, 
We  see  but  blackness  in  our  way  : 

In  sorrow  seems  our  ending : 
But  God  will  send  a  hope- fraught  ray — 

His  love,  from  Heaven  bending. 
With  malice  toward  no  fellow  man, 

Freely  all  wrongs  forgiving, 
Render  to  God  the  most  you  can — 

A  love  laden  Thanksgiving. 


149 


A 


Hurrah  for  to-night  !     All  Hallowe'en 

Is  thrown  upon  the  gay  world's  screen. 

For  choice,  red  apples  let  us  "  bob," 

While  damsels  gaze,  with  anxious  throb, 

Into  the  mirror  for  a  sight 

Of  males  with  whom  their  vows  they  '11  plight. 

On  tip-toe  let  us  stand,  and  try 

To  bite  that  apple,  stringing  high. 

To  £iddy  girls :  water  and  salt 

Swelled  in  your  peachy  cheeks  will  halt 

The  apparition  of  your  spouse. 

Leeied    pumpkins,     hung    from    quiv'ring 

boughs 

Of  yonder  fecund  chestnut  tree, 
Cause  elves  to  dance  in  ghoulish  glee. 
Then  gather  'round  the  cheery  fire, 
And,  as  the  flames  mount  higher,  higher, 
Ghost  stories  tell,  till  faint  ones  fear 
150 


A  spectre  may,  e'en  now,  be  near. 
When  to  your  bed  you  make  your  way, 
And,  kneeling,  for  each  loved  one  pray, 
Do  not,  because  't  is  over,  grieve, 
But  wait  till  next  comes  "  Holler  Eve." 


'5' 


Spring   Apostrophizes. 


I  'm  Gentle  Spring,  the  hated  bane 

Of  editors,  who  seek,  in  vain. 

To  kill  off  poets,  who  declare — 

Those  chaps,  you  know,  with  jungle  hair  — 

That  sunshine  never  seemed  more  bright 

Than  since  I  sprang  from  Winter's  night. 

I  'm  Gentle  Spring — you  know  me  well — 
For  me  agonic  raptures  swell : 
I  'm  shunned  by  poets  of  fair  fame, 
But  yet  I  "  get  there,  just  the  same.'' 
Queen  Summer  springs  from  out  my  lap  : 
But  Summer  is  n't  u  on  the  map!  " 

I  'm  Gentle  Spring  :  the  printer  swears 
Whene'er  my  name  in  "copy  "  stares 
Him  in  the  face.     Perhaps  the  thought 
Of  iced  cream  that  must  soon  be  bought, 
With  other  sweet  commodities, 
Compels  his  marrow,  lean,  to  freeze  ! 


I  'm  Gentle  Spring— what 's  that :  "  a  truce  ? " 
You  all  consign  me  to  "  the  deuce  "- 
Tell  me  to  '*  get  to  blazes  out !  " 
In  tones  a  long  way  from  devout  ? 
All  right:  just  wait  until  next  year. 
And  you  the  self-same  song  shall  hear  ! 


'S3 


Ths  Drum. 

Great  orchestras,  with  swelling  chords : 
Crude  savages,  with  noise  of  gourds  ; 
Brass  bands,  each  piece  of  sounding  kev  ; 
Bass  viols,  fusing  ecstasy  ; 
Tom-toms,  with  noisy,  dull-toned  beat ; 
Guitars,  with  musing  sonance  sweet ; 
Shrill  fifes,  that  pierce  the  list'ning  ear  ; 
The  tuba-horn,  to  blow  which  beer 
Is  needed  to  enforce  the  wind  ; 
Reverb 'rant  reeds  of  eastern  Ind : 
Piano-forte,  aipeggios-fraught  ; 
^Eolian  trills,  by  Amphion  taught  ; 
And  melting  sweeps  of  zither,  soft 
As  by  Euterpe  borne  aloft ; 
The  rattling  ring  of  banjo  thrum  : 
The  sound-majestic  roll  of  drum — 

The  drum!     The  drum  ! 

From  whose  depths  come 
Those  martial  tones  to  which  succumb 

•54 


The  cav'ling  fears  faint  manhood  knows, 
And  send,  to  battle  'whelming  foes, 
Brave  hosts,  'gainst  which  naught  can  op 
pose. 

The  faintest  hearts  at  once  become 
The  bravest  at  the  sound  of  drum! 


'55 


Tbe  Judge's  Decision. 

A  local  daily  did  me  the  honor  to  submit  the  verses 
received  in  an  inter-State  Christmas  poetry  contest,  for  my 
decision  thereon,  \\hich  is  here  appended  : 

Dear  Mr.  Editor:  You  ask 

Of  me  a  most  brain-racking  task. 

When  I  next  on  your  kind  impose 

With  stilted  verse,  may  these  eyes  close ! 

I  once  thought  my  villanelles  brought 

Joy  in  the  sanctum — wonders  wrought 

Among  those  who,  by  cruel  Fate, 

Must  therein  for  subscribers  wait. 

But,  since  you  've  asked  me  to  partake 

Of  suff'rings  yours:  Fame's  hot  thirst  slake: 

Essaying  to  do  that  which  you, 

From  time  lost  track  of,  have  gone  thro'— 

Methinks  I  '11  ne'ermore  versify. 

Nor  cause  more  editors  to  die. 

Alas  !  alack  !  what  breasts  were  beat 

In  many  a  sanctum's  dark  retreat  ! 

What  cries  of  anguish  rent  the  air ! 

('T  was  verily  good  I  was  not  there!) 


What  curdling  curses  on  my  head  ! 

What  loving  things  of  me  were  said — 

And  all  because  my  vagrant  Muse 

Their  souls  did  not,  as  mine,  enthuse! 

The  task  assigned  is  delicate — 

So  many  on  my  answer  wait — 

And  criticisms  will  ensue 

Soon  as  the  victor  's  brought  to  view. 

Of  merit  there  's  a  modicum 

In  each  verse,  howe'er  cumbersome 

With  useless  anapaestic  sounds  : 

Verse  erstwhile  played  at  hare  and  hounds: 

Again,  poor  rhythm,  scant'ly  yoked 

With  thoughts  by  no  means  poor,  invoked 

My  pity  that  the  writer  had 

Not  yet  discerned  'tween  good  and  bad. 

First  honors  reach  "  A  Christmas  Star," 

While  "  Santa  Claus,"  the  children's  Czar, 

Passes,  for  "place,"  beneath  the  uwire:  " 

All  others  vainly  tuned  the  lyre. 


'57 


That  Quizzing   Blizzard. 


Ye  bards  who  scale  Parnassian  heights, 
Who  know  Olympia's  fierce  delights  : 
Ye  hacks  who  woo  the  Muse  o'  nights  : 

Thrice  palsied  be  the  wing 
Of  flame  poetic — Fate-fraught  shaft ! 
That  stamps  you  stultified  and  daft : 
The  fetid  inspiration  quaff't 

Of  gentle,  beauteous  Spring! 

Quaint  Farmer  Dunn,  in  jean  attire, 
Poured  out  the  vials  of  his  ire  : 
Discordant  is  the  Spring-tuned  lyre, 

While  falls  the  snow — ker-flump  ! 
Breathes  there  a  man  so  lost  to  shame, 
So  careless  of  his  own  fair  fame, 
As  't  write  of  Spring,  in  words  of  flame  ? 

That  man  's  a  soulless  chump  ! 

Just  think  ? — that  storm  of  yesterday 
158 


Has  ta'en  our  trusting  faith  away 

In  Granger  Dunn,  of  New  York  Buy, 

Who  made  a  bad  "miscue." 
A  zephyr,  fresh  from  Peary's  fleet, 
An  Afric  simoon  chanced  to  meet : 
They  places  changed  :  the  joke  's  compleie 

Let  Spring  begin  anew. 
APRIL  12,   1894. 


'59 


Ineffectual  Genius. 


"The  ineffectual  genius  of  the  nineteenth  century,  I 
fancy,  which  betrays  itself  by  strange  incongruities  and 
contrasts  of  a  violent  kind,  but  is  otherwise  unproductive," 
Mrs.  Orton  Beg  whispered  to  Mr.  Frayling,  incautiously. 
—  The  Heavenly  Twins. 

Genius — and  ineffectual  ? 

Can  such  as  that  exist 
When  God  the  intellectual 

With  glowing  fire  has  kis't  ? 
Barren  and  fruitless  gifts  bestowed 

When  birth  brought  life's  clear  view  : 
Is  this  the  fin  de  siecle  mode 

Of  plenishing  with  new 
The  worn,  a-wearied  action-line 

That  Genius'  nation  knows — 
Of  marking  out  the  arts'  decline 

To  emphasize  their  close  ? 

Shall  Muses  speak  to  inchoate 

And  far  unworthy  minds, 
Or  shall  they  seek  the  old  estate, 

100 


Where  lofty  souls  one  finds  ? 
Shall  thrill  Euterpe's  strains  of  might, 

When  none  can  feel  their  charms  : 
Or  e'en  the  stars  the  blue  bedight 

When  earth  seeks  Somnus'  arms  ? 
Genius,  whose  flame  can  never  flare, 

Tho'  oft  thou  art  invoked. 
Thy  fire-tip'd  shaft  is  ever  bare — 

Thy  soul  to  genius  yoked  ! 


The  Press. 

From  out  the  chaos  of  a  world  unknown 

In  parts  to  other  parts  ; 
From  out  the  noisy  Babel,  where  alone 

Prevails  the  din  of  marts  : 
From    need    that    sprang    from    mind,    un 
satisfied 

By  herald's  meagreness  : 
Behold,  a  pow'r  appears  :  nor  yet  belied 

By  name — behold,  the  Press  ! 

Its  power  ?     To  Niagara's  foam-tip'd  fall, 
Add  all  earth's  water-force — 

The  mighty  Press,  unfettered,  is  to  all 
As  is  old  Ocean's  course! 

Ten   million    eyes    this    Argus    hath,    and 

naught 
Of  worth,  or  small  or  great, 

Eludes  his  observation,  but  is  caught 

For  men's  minds,  news-belate. 
162 


Men's    wrongs,    like    sins    unpunished,    cry 

aloud 

Tor  succor  and  redress  : 
And,  championing  the  right,  from  Wrath's 

dun  cloud, — 
Behold,  the  Press  ! 
Advancement,  Progress,  Light  and  Life,  in 

bold, 

Bright  caption  its  shield  dress  : 
Might,  Right  are  ever,  truly  thine — behold, 
The  Press! 


Despair. 

Grim  are  thy  shadows,  O,  Despair  I 
Grim  are  thy  shadows — grim  and  bare  T 
Dark  is  the  way  that  leads  to  thee! 
Dark  is  the  mind  that  pleads  to  thee ! 
Black  are  the  clouds  that  o'er  thee  dwell — 
Black  as  the  clouds  that  shadow  hell ! 
Deep  the  abyss  that  meeteth  thee! 
Deep  the  heart-burn  that  greeteth  thee  I 
Dun  is  the  pall  that  hides  thy  face ! 
Dun  is  the  fall  from  human  grace ! 
Dreary  the  path  that  knows  no  end ! 
Dreary  the  souls  who  on  it  wend 
Ways  to  the  crypt  of  black  Despair  : 
Ways  to  the  shadows,  grim  and  bare  ! 

Steeped  in  the  mists  of  human  hate  ! 
Steeped  in  the  grists  of  'pending  Fate  I 
Might  lends  to  rage  its  doubled  pow'r  ! 
Might  rends  the  guage  of  troubl'd  dow'r  ! 
.64. 


Mighty  the  waves  of  fierce,  foul  scorn  1 
Mighty  the  staves  of  curses  born  ! 
Tragic  the  wild  thoughts  then  that  roll ! 
Tragic  the  requiem  of  the  soul ! 
Damn'd,  thrice,  the  heart  that  knows  thy 

blight ! 
Damn'd,   thrice,   the    man  who  knows  thy 

might ! 

Grim  are  thy  shadows,  O,  Despair  1 
Grim  are  thy  shadows — grim  and  bare  1 


The  Italian  JVIatcl?  Boy. 


"  Please,  buy  some  matches,  lady, 

No  carry  so  much  then  ; 
The  road  is  long  and  dusty, 

And  nothing  for  me  when 
The  day  is  done  but  to  lay  down 

To  sleep,  beneath  some  tree  : 
Please,  buy  some  matches,  lady, 

Buy  matches,  ma'am,  from  me  ? 

''  A  cruel  man  is  my  padrone  — 

He  beats  me  till  I  'm  sore, 
Because  nobody  buys  a  box  — 

Because  I  can't  sell  more. 
Just  see  how  clear  the  matches  snap 

Take  'em  —  ten  cents  for  three? 
Please,  buy  some  matches,  lady, 

Buy  matches,  ma'am,  from  me?" 


u  You  be  rich  lady,  madam, 
166 


Some  day,  for  what  you  've  done  ! 
Oh,  thank  you  !  thank  you,  lady  ! 

And  may  your  little  son, 
Who  's  smiling  in  the  window, 

Never  come  down  where  he 
Will  have  to  peddle  matches, 

And  tramp  around,  like  me  !  " 

He  kissed  the  woman's  hand,  and  turned 

To  go  out  thro1  the  gate, 
And,  picking  up  his  heavy  load. 

Altho1  the  hour  was  late, 
He  dragged  himself  along  the  road — 

This  creature,  wan  and  wee — 
And  asked,  at  ev'ry  door  he  stopped: 

Buy  matches,  please,  from  me  ?  " 


,67 


Quatrains. 

On  Hist'ry's  pages  may  be  found 
The  life-blood  of  a  Nation,  dried : 

Each  tome,  with  heroism  bound, 
Shows  love  and  valor  close  allied. 


True  manhood  copies  womanhood 
In  noble  qualities  of  mind  ; 

The  light  of  hist'ry  shows  the  good 
Not  to  the  sterner  sex  confined. 


The  thirsty  earth — her  prayer   to    Heav'n 

regarded — 

Is  glad,  with  voiceful  gladness,  not  retarded 
By   aught    of    what    has   been :    enhanced 

thereby, 
Her  joy-pores  ope  :  deliverance  is  nigh." 


168 


Athens'   Defection. 


South  Nyack,  the  intellectual,  ban  ton  residence  portion 
of  Nyack-on  Hudson,  voted,  in  1894,  through  negligence, 
against  the  annual  appropriation  requisite  to  its  citizens  en  - 
joying  the  privileges  of  the  free  library  of  the  four  Nyacks, 
but,  subsequently,  made  up  the  necessary  amount  by  pri 
vate  subscriptions. 

South  Nyack  : 

Paradigm  of  intellectual  excellence — 

Quad-Nyack's  Hellenic  purlieus — 

Who  repudiated  the  spirits  of 

SainteBeuve.  Shakespeare,  Servetus,  Shelley, 

Bulwer,  Bacon.  Balzac,  Bancroft, 

Disraeli,  Dana,  Darwin,  Demosthenes, 

Pope,  Plutarch,  Poe,  Paine, 

Hoke  Smith,  Pod  Dismuke,  Dink  Botts, 

Jadam  Bede,  Muley  Hassan,  Larry  Godkin, 

And  Col.  Abe.  Slupsky — 

Sorra  the  day  ! 

Has  the  buffalo  returned  to  his  wallow, 

Or  the  maudlin  owl  to  her  wisdom — 

Which? 

Were  the  Library  in  her  bourne, 

169 


The  very  cobbles  of  South  Nyack 

Would  cry  out  for  the  "  free  graft !  " 

Such  is  blindness  !  A  cry 

From  Macedonian  South  Nyack  : 

"  Come  and  help  us  !  '* 

But  we  do  n't  help — 

N'ary  bit  ! 

Put  up  the  "squidulum."  ye  cerebro- fatuous, 

Who  voted  for  light,*  to  guide 

The  blear  eyed  Bacchanalian  home, 

But  not  to  lumine  the  abject  psychic  density 

Of  non-appreciative  souls, 

And  in  thy  grasp  the  prize  is. 

Shades  of  Marcus  Antoninus  Aurelius  1 

Shall  South  Nyack  claim  eminence 

As  a  foster  mother  of  teinturiers, 

And  list  not  to  the  wail  for  free  books  ? 

Hardly,  Sophelia  ! 

Put  up  the  price,  O,  ye  of  many  stamps, 

And  help  Nyack  to  carry  the  banner  ! 


The  electric  light  a,  propriation  passed. 
170 


A  Retrospect. 

I  never  see  a  little  child 

But  I  recall  when  I  was  young  : 
When  childish  romp  my  hours  beguiled, 
And  Nature's  God  upon  me  smiled  : 
Before  the  reign  of  passions,  wild, 

Before  Delilah's  song  was  sung. 

Be  brave,  dear  one,  before  you  feel 

The  fury  of  Sin's  venom  hurled 
At  thy  pure  breast,  with  intent,  real, 
And  hatred  for  thy  spotless  weal  : 
Be  strong,  ere  years  of  pain  reveal 

The  wretched,  wicked,  woful  world  ! 


'7' 


Romping 


Oh,  the  bouncing  and  the  jouncing 
Of  the  rhyme,  of  the  rhyme  ; 

Oh,  the  rouncing  and  the  flouncing 
Of  the  rhyme,  of  the  rhyme  ! 

There  's  a  mate  for  ev'ry  word 

In  the  brain  of  man  that  's  stirr'd — 

Oft  he  rues  it  afterward, 

When  the  editor  calls  "  time  !  " 

Oh,  the  rolling  and  the  bowling 
Of  the  rhyme,  of  the  rhyme ; 
Oh,  the  souling  and  cajoling 

Of  the  rhyme,  of  the  rhyme ! 

How  the  poet  oft  must  eke 

Out  a  line  with  ancient  Greek — 

Wear  his  hair  long,  like  a  freak — 

'T  is  sublime  !  't  is  sublime  ! 

Oh,  the  cooing  and  the  wooing 
Of  the  rhyme,  of  the  rhyme  ; 
'7* 


Oh,  the  suing,  black-and-bluing, 
Of  the  rhyme,  of  the  rhyme  ! 
How,  with  many  a  repetition, 
Rolls  the  rhythm  on  its  mission — 
Doling  out  its  sad  fruition, 
All  the  time  !  all  the  time ! 

Oh,  the  soulful  and  the  doleful 
Of  the  rhyme,  of  the  rhyme  ; 

Oh,  the  bowlful  of  ube-joyful" 
Oft  behind  the  flight  of  rhyme  ! 

Wild,  erratic  Allen  Poe 

Drew  on  Amontillado, 

And  he  reaped  a  toper's  woe, 
Thro'  all  time  !  thro'  all  time  ! 


Oh,  the  swishing  of  and  fishing 
For  the  rhyme,  for  the  rhyme  ; 

Oh,  the  wishing  and  the  squishing 
Of  the  rhyme,  of  the  rhyme  ! 


When  the  poet's  thoughts  relax, 
Spectral,  stalks  the  Income  Tax — 
And  he  flees  from  its  cold  facts 

T"  another  clime  '  t'  another  clime  ! 


'74 


Sunder  Days  Are  On  tfye  Wape. 


There  are  signs  we  can  no  longer  pass  in 
differently  by — 

Signs  of  autumn,  fast  approaching,  shadow 
ing  Summer's  last,  long  sigh. 

Even  now,  to  grace  the  table  of  Thanksgiv 
ing,  gourmands  gloat 

At  the  thought  that  in  the  barn-yard  fatt'n- 
ing  is  the  poly  shote. 

A    precursor,    sure,    of    fall-time    is     the 
phcebe's  mournful  *'  tweet  !  " 

As  he  reckons  soon  of  Summer  days  will  be 
but  mem'ries,  sweet. 

And   the  fields  of    bristling   stubble,    once 
rolled  high  with  lordly  grain, 

All  emphasize  that  Summer 
Days 

Are 

On 

The 

Wane. 

'75 


Crickets  soon  their  tireless  grace-notes  will 
surcease,  ere  comes  the  fall  : 

And   the    "jug-o'-rums,"   in  boggy  morassr 
choke  their  glummy  call. 

E'en  the  "  dog-days,''  lowering  sullen,  frown 
glad  Summer's  smiles  to  tears  : 

And  the  heated  moderation  tells  that   au 
tumn's  column  nears. 

Back  to  haunts  that  through  the  Summer 
knew  them  not,  a  sun-burned  crowd 

Troops    from    mountain,   lake    and    valley, 
and  where  Ocean  murmurs  loud  : 

For  the  days  are  shorter  growing,  and  the 
shadows  on  the  pane, 

All  emphasize  that  Summer 
Days 

Are 

On 

The 

Wane, 


\Yith    a  sigh    of  depth,  deep — mournful — 

and  a  flow  of  lachrymae, 
Summer  girls  give  o'er  their  conquests  by 

the  swelling,  tearful  sea  ; 
And,  discarded  belt  and  "  bloomers,"  with 

disgust,  true,  real,  sincere, 
Ribbon -counters  hide  the  shins  of  be;uix  of 

Narragansett  Pier. 
Soon  the  leaves,  tergiversating  color  to  the 

season's  tune, 
Will  return  to  earth  the  verdure  spring-tide 

begged  of  natal  June. 
Thoughts  of  next  Spring's  batch  of  verses, 

driving  rhymesters  'most  insane, 
All  emphasize  that  Summer 

Days 

Are 

On 

The 

Wane. 


'77 


When  Old  Age  Comes  On. 


When  your  life  is  young,  and  promise  makes 

each  thought  a  glad  delight, 
And  the  world  seems  pure  and  joyous  :  all 

unknown  is  sin-hued  blight : 
Ev'ry  waking  hour  is  gladness,  ev'ry  breath 

is  fraught  with  song, 
And  we  cannot  see  why  sorrow  makes  the 

lives  of  some  all  wrong; 
All  your  youthful  days  are  given  up  to  mirth 

and  romp  and  glee, 
And    you    mind   not    premonitions    of    the 

things  that  are  to  be  : 
But  you  waken  at  the  moment  when  your 

past  life  you  must  con — 
Prepare  for  what  is  coming 

When 

Old 

Age 

Comes 

On. 
178 


Life  may  seem   so  full   of  smiles  that   tears 
arc  better  when  unknown  : 

And  the  thing  that  time  beguiles  best  cal 
culated  lo  condone 

For  the  day  when  sorrow's  pinions  cleaved 
the  air  around  your  head, 

And  the  peace  of  mind  of  yestermorn  that 
morning's  sun  found  dead. 

And  you  seek  relief  in  worldly  things — your 
heart  fill  with  their  joy  : 

Fast  forgetting   not  a  golden  moment  but 
has  its  alloy  : 

But  you  turn  your  eyes  to  Heaven,  with  its 
glories  your  soul  don — 

Prepare  for  what  will  happen — 
When 

Old 

Age 

Comes 

On. 


'79 


"  E'en  Tho'  It  Be  a  Cross." 

The  stone  church  fronted  on  the  street, 

In  architecture,  grand  ; 
And  many  passed,  with  busy  feet, 

To  meet  life's  great  demand 
For  biead  and  wine  :   nor  stopped  to  pray 

In  its  inviting  calm  ; 
No  time  to  look  to  Heav'n  had  they. 

Nor  wish  for  its  sweet  balm. 
The  golden-glinting  cross  a-top 

The  buttresses  of  gray, 
Rose  high  o'er  fact'ry,  hill  and  shop — 

Its  lesson  to  convey 
To  souls  of  men,  whose  lust  for  gold 

Shut  out  all  love  for  God. 
The  church  pile  heaped  its  outlines,  bold, 

Aloft,  on  sacred  sod. 

Without  the  door  a  hydrant  stood, 
With  tin  cup  hanging  near, 

180 


And  many  of  the  brotherhood 

Of  mankind  halted  here 
To  quench  the  thirst,  by  heat  begot, 

Or  midnight's  drunken  crave, 
Then  dropped  the  cup  and  quick  forgot 

The  benefit  it  gave. 
A  "  tramp,"  in  rags  and  tatters  clothed, 

By  chance  betook  him  there, 
And  drank  the  cup  he  often  loathed, 

For  want  of  better  fare. 
The  clear,  cold  liquor  satisfied 

The  burning  flame  within  : 
It  cleared  his  head  and  quelled  the  tide 

Of  thoughts,  black,  dark  with  sin. 

And,  as  he  turned  his  eyes  above, 

A  gleam  from  off  the  cross 
Brought  back  to  mem'ry  mother-love — 

The  old  life,  and  its  loss. 
The  prayer  his  mother  murmur'd  low. 

When  bowed  he  at  her  knee  : 

iSi 


"  As  't  is  in  Heav'n,  even  so 

Be  it  to  mine  and  me  !  " 
Came  to  his  mind,  thro'  mists  of  tears, 

That  blinded,  as  they  fell  : 
How  fruitless,  since,  the  sadd'ned  years, 

The  "  tramp,"  alone,  could  tell. 
O'ercome,  he  bowed  his  head  and  cried 

"  Oh,  God  !  that,  ere  I  broke 
My  mother's  heart,  I,  too,  had  died  !  " 

Then  sang  he,  as  he  spoke: 

"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee  ; 
E'en  tho1  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me  !  " 


Li'Envoi. 

Dear  reader — comrade  in  distress  ! — relief 

Is  thine  and  mine  :  for  here 
The  finis  is.     I  add  this  extra  sheaf 

That  parting  be  less  drear. 

If    I,    perchance,    have    struck   responding 
chord 

To  that  which  knows  thy  breast, 
And,  in  the  unity  of  that  concord, 

Pleased  thee,  these  lines  are  bles't! 

If  aught  of  interest  has  marked  my  work  : 
If  heart-response  't  has  stirr'd  : 

If  joy,  sincere,  perusing,  lay  a-lurk 
For  thee,  I  bless  each  word  ! 


'83 


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